Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes (9 page)

“You are quite correct, Mr. Holmes,” acknowledged Low. “Mr. Fitzgerald wrote and asked if I would be available to look into a series of events which is proving troubling to his household, and appears to be beyond the capabilities of the local police force.”

“And we have received a similar letter from Mrs. Fitzgerald,” said Holmes. “It appears, Mr. Low, that we shall have a practical means of comparing our methods; it will be interesting to see what results we achieve.”

“Indeed.” Low paused, and looked from one of us to the other. “You say that you know nothing of Julian Karswell, save for the few facts surrounding his death. Perhaps, if you will allow me, I can give further elucidation as to the character of the late owner of Lufford Abbey.”

“By all means,” said Holmes. “At present I am working in the dark, and any information which you can provide would be of the greatest interest.”

“I am not surprised that you know little of Julian Karswell,” said Low, settling back into his seat and clasping his hands behind his head, “for while I, and a few others who knew of him, felt that he had the makings of a distinguished criminal, he never committed any crimes which broke the laws of man as they currently stand.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows. “Are you saying that he committed crimes which broke other laws?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. Karswell was interested in the occult, or the black arts — call it what you will — and he had the means to devote himself to his studies, for he was reputed to be a man of great wealth, although how he acquired this wealth was a question for much speculation. He used to joke about the many treasures of his house, although no one that I know of was ever permitted to see them. He wrote a book upon the subject of witchcraft, which was treated with contempt by most of those who bothered to read it; until, that is, it appeared that Mr. Karswell took a somewhat more practical approach to the occult than had been suspected.”

“Practical?” I interjected. “In what way?”

Our companion paused before replying. When he did, his tone was grave. “Certain people who had occasion to cross Mr. Karswell suffered fates which were … curious, to say the least. A man named John Harrington, who wrote a scathing review of Karswell’s book
The History of Witchcraft
, died under circumstances which were never satisfactorily explained, and another man, Edward Dunning, made what I consider to be a very narrow escape.”

It was my turn to utter an exclamation, and both Holmes and Low turned to look at me. “Edward Dunning, who belongs to the ______ — Association?” I asked.

“Yes,” replied Low in some curiosity, while Holmes gazed at me quizzically. “Why, do you know him?”

“As a matter of fact I do,” I replied. “He came to me on the recommendation of a neighbor — oh, eighteen months or so ago — and we struck up a friendship of sorts; enough that when he was seriously incommoded by illness in his household I invited him to dinner.”

“When was this?” asked Low, with an eagerness which somewhat surprised me.

“Why” — I paused to think — “this was in the spring of last year; April, as I recall. His two servants were struck down by a sudden illness — food poisoning, I suspect — and the poor man seemed somewhat lost, so I invited him to dinner at my club. He seemed more pleased than the invitation itself would warrant, and was reluctant to leave; almost as if he did not want to return to his house. Indeed, he was in a rather agitated state; distracted, as if he were continually turning some problem over in his mind.”

“You are very close to the truth, Doctor,” said Low gravely. “The agitation which Edward Dunning displayed was occasioned by Karswell, and certain steps which that person was even then taking; steps which almost led to Dunning’s death.”

“Death!” exclaimed my friend. “Surely that brought Karswell within reach of the law?”

“Yes and no,” replied Low after a pause. “You see, gentlemen,” he continued, “Karswell was a very clever man in some ways, and was familiar with practices which would allow him to exact revenge against someone while ensuring that he himself remained safe from prosecution; there were rumors that he was preparing another book on the subject, although nothing came of it. Unfortunately for him, he ran up against two people — Edward Dunning being one of them — who were prepared to use his own methods, and thus escape harm by throwing Karswell’s own agents against him.”

“Are you saying that you believe this Karswell used supernatural means to accomplish his ends?” asked Holmes in astonishment.

“That is precisely what I am saying, Mr. Holmes,” replied Low gravely. “I agree with the words of St. Augustine:
Credo ut intelligam
.” 1 Holmes shook his head.

“I am afraid I must side with Petrarch:
Vos vestros servate, meos mihi linquite mores
.2 It has been my experience that no case, no matter how bizarre or otherworldly it may seem when it commences, cannot be explained by entirely natural means. Surely your own experiences, Mr. Low, will have shown you that man is capable enough of evil, without ascribing its presence to the supernatural.”

“As to your last point, Mr. Holmes, we are in complete agreement. Where we differ, it seems, is in our willingness to accept that not everything we see or hear or experience can be rationalized. I enter every case I undertake with a perfectly clear mind, and no one is more pleased than I when it can be proved that something which appears to be supernatural has a completely logical explanation that would stand up in a court of law. And yet it is my belief that we are standing on the frontier of an unknown world, the rules of which we do not comprehend and can only vaguely grasp, in flashes, as our unready senses catch broken glimpses of things which obey laws we cannot understand. One day, perhaps, this other world will be understood, and mapped as fully as any known country on earth; until then we can only advance slowly, storing away pieces of the puzzle in hopes that they can be fitted together in the fullness of time.”

It was an extraordinary speech to hear in the prosaic surroundings of a first-class carriage rattling through the placid English countryside; but Flaxman Low’s earnest face and steady voice carried a conviction that it was impossible to ridicule. I could tell that my friend was impressed despite himself, and when he replied it was in a tone more restrained and conciliatory than would have been the case only a few minutes earlier.

“Well, Mr. Low, we must agree to disagree on certain points; but I look forward to the experience of working with you on this case. Perhaps, if you would be so good, you might tell us more of Mr. Karswell.”

“But what can he have to do with this?” I interjected. “He died almost a year ago, and surely can have nothing to do with the matter in hand.”

“Possibly not,” said my friend, “but the fact remains that a man who appears to have died in questionable circumstances, and who himself may have been involved in the death of at least one person, has left behind him a house which is now, in turn, the scene of mysterious occurrences. This may prove to be mere coincidence, but it is not something an investigator can ignore. The more facts with which we are armed, the more likely that we shall bring Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald’s case to a speedy — and satisfactory — conclusion.”

I will not try the patience of my readers by detailing the events which Flaxman Low laid before us; Dr. James of King’s College has since provided his own account of the case, which is readily available. Suffice it to say that Mr. Julian Karswell appeared to have been a deeply unpleasant person, quick to anger, sensitive to criticism both real and imagined, and with the fire of vengeance burning within him, so much so that any who crossed his path appeared to have very real cause to fear for their safety. He was, according to Low, responsible for the death of John Harrington, and very nearly killed Edward Dunning, although Holmes refused to believe that he used supernatural means to accomplish his ends; nor did he believe that Karswell’s sudden death at Abbeville was anything other than the accident the French investigators deemed it to be. “For if a man will go walking about in a site where extensive repairs are being carried out, we cannot be surprised to hear that some mischance has befallen him,” he said, while Flaxman Low shook his head but said nothing.

Our companion had scarcely finished narrating his story when our train began to slow, and our stop was announced. We were among only a handful of passengers who alighted, and before the train had pulled away we were approached by a coachman, who nodded his head respectfully at us.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, and Mr. Low, is it?” he enquired. “You are all expected, gentlemen; I’ll see to your baggage if you will kindly follow me.”

We left the station and found a carriage awaiting us, a fine team of horses standing harnessed in front of it. Holmes ran his keen eyes over them.

“I see that we have not far to go to Lufford Abbey,” he remarked, and the coachman glanced at him.

“No, sir, little more’n a mile or so. You’ve been here before, then?”

“No,” interjected Low, before my friend could reply, “but the horses are fresh and glossy, which would indicate that they have not travelled far to get here.”

Holmes’ lips twitched in a slight smile. “You evidently see and observe, Mr. Low. Excellent traits in a detective.”

“I have learned from a master,” replied Low, giving a small bow. “Indeed, I may say that it was reading the early accounts of your cases, as penned by Dr. Watson, which first gave me the thought of applying your methods to the investigation of that frontier which we were discussing during our journey here. Indeed, one day it might come to pass that you are acknowledged as being as great a forerunner in that field as you are in the science of more ordinary detection.”

Our bags had been loaded in the carriage, and we climbed in. The coachman called out to the horses and we were on our way, rumbling through the main street of a pretty village crowded with half-timbered buildings which spoke of a more peaceful way of life than existed in the bustling metropolis which we had left. The tranquillity around us contrasted so sharply with the story Flaxman Low had told us in the train, and the dark deeds hinted at in Mrs. Fitzgerald’s letter, that I could not help shivering. Low, who was sitting opposite me, caught my eye and nodded.

“Yes, Doctor,” he said, as if in answer to my thoughts, “it is difficult to believe that such things can exist when the evidence of our senses shows us such pleasant scenes. I hope, in all honesty, that our clients’ case may prove to have an entirely logical and rational solution; but given what I know of the late owner of Lufford Abbey, I confess I fear the worst.”

It seemed that we had scarcely left the village behind us when the carriage turned through a set of massive iron gates, and we found ourselves driving through beautifully maintained grounds. Bright clumps of yellow daffodils were dotted about a wide sweep of grassland, which led in turn to a thick plantation of trees on both sides of the drive. Ahead of us lay Lufford Abbey itself, an imposing building of mellow stone which seemed to glow in the warm afternoon sunlight. I did not have time to contemplate the house, however, for as soon as the carriage drew up the front door opened, and our host and hostess came out to greet us.

They were an interesting study in contrasts, Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald. He was tall and slender, with dark eyes set in a pale face, and an unruly shock of black hair, a lock of which he was perpetually brushing back from his forehead. His wife, while almost as tall as her husband, was more sturdily built, and her blue eyes looked out from a face which I guessed was, under normal circumstances, ruddy-complexioned and clear, as of one who spends a good deal of time in the open air. Now, however, it wore a look of anxiety, an expression shared by Mr. Fitzgerald, who stepped forward with short, nervous steps, wringing his hands together in an attitude of embarrassment.

“Mr. Low?” he enquired, looking from one of us to another, and our companion nodded his head.

“I am Flaxman Low, and these gentlemen are Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. We understand from your coachman that we are all expected.”

“Yes, yes, of course … oh dear, this is really most awkward. I do not know how I came to make such a terrible mistake. The dates — of course, I put the wrong one in my letter to you, Mr. Low, and it was only when I spoke with my wife after that I realized what had happened. We did not intend … that is to say, we meant … such a dreadful mix-up…”

His words trailed off, and he wore a look of contrition that was almost comical. His wife stepped forward firmly and placed a hand on his arm.

“My husband is correct in saying that this is an awkward situation, gentlemen; but such events happen in the best-regulated of households, and I believe that when you hear our story you will excuse us. Matters have been somewhat” — she paused, as if in search of the correct word — “fraught here in recent days, and we were both so anxious of a solution that we proceeded independently of each other, with the result that you now see. We will, of course, understand perfectly should one of you decide that he would rather not stay.”

“Explanations are unnecessary,” replied Holmes, and Low nodded. “My friend and I were not previously acquainted with Mr. Low, but a fortuitous chance has ensured that we had an opportunity to discuss the matter — so far as we know it — on the way here, and I think I may safely say that we see no difficulty in combining our efforts.”

“Mr. Holmes is quite correct,” added Low. “While we may differ in certain of our beliefs, we are united in our determination to put an end to the difficulties which you face.”