by Bill Crider
“Not astounding at all,” said Holmes. “I see that your hands are calloused as they might be from some use of a shovel; in particular I note that callous on the outside of your forefinger. And the peculiar loam that adheres to the side of your left shoe is the type found in the St. Marylebone cemetery, where an article in today’s Times states that you are employed.”
Holmes had often told me that a man’s hands and shoes could tell one a great deal about him, and once again he had proved his theories to be so.
“Furthermore,” Holmes continued, “you are plainly of Indian descent. The name mentioned in the Times, your calloused hands, the soil on your shoe—all those things suggest that you must be the man referred to in the article. And you have come here directly from your work” (at this remark Holmes gave me a significant glance, which I pretended not to notice) “because you are in some distress about your situation with regard to the so-called St. Marylebone ghoul. It is all rather elementary.”
“That may be,” said Swaraj, his eyes wide, “but I doubt that any other man in London could have arrived at your conclusion based on the same evidence.”
“Oh, there is perhaps one other,” said Holmes. “Possibly two. But be that as it may, you did not come here to discuss my deductive abilities. Take our visitor’s coat, Watson, and let us sit down to hear his story.”
I did as requested, taking his hat and scarf as well, and when we had settled ourselves comfortably, Holmes asked Mr. Swaraj to begin.
“My father is a Parsee Indian, a convert to Christianity and a minister of the gospel,” he said. “My mother is an Englishwoman. As you can no doubt imagine, this somewhat, ah, unusual domestic arrangement, at least in the eyes of some, has been a cause of some consternation. Not in ourselves, but others.”
Holmes nodded, impatiently I thought, as he waited for Swaraj to get to the meat of his story.
“I said that my father was a minister,” Swaraj continued, “but things in his parish” (here he named a small community in rural Sheffield) “… changed. It was fine for a long time. We had a garden full of roses at the rectory, and the hollyhocks were higher than my head. There were bees in the hollyhocks, of course, but we didn’t mind.” He shook his head. “But you don’t want to hear about that. It’s just that it was a happy place for us for a while, until things became difficult. But they did, unfortunately, and we left our home in the country and moved to London.”
Holmes looked more interested now. “Difficult in what way?” he said.
Swaraj did not meet his eyes. “There were … incidents.”
“What kind of incidents?”
“Unpleasant ones.”
“Please be a bit more specific,” said Holmes, and Swaraj turned his seemingly small eyes in my direction.
“Anything that you can say to me may be said to Dr. Watson,” said Holmes. “He is a man of utmost probity.”
Swaraj took a deep breath. “Very well. Obscene writings appeared on the walls of some houses in the parish. Small animals, pets, disappeared, and later were found killed in a heinous manner. Someone … something … had fed on them, or so it appeared. Blame fell on me.”
“And were you involved in any fashion?”
“Oh, no. I would never do such disgusting things. I have heeded my father’s Christian teachings since boyhood. But there were those who believed I was guilty. It was an intolerable situation.”
“But someone held a grudge against you or your family for wrongs, real or imagined.”
“Imagined, I assure you. My father is a man of unwavering Christian faith and beliefs, which he has instilled in my mother and me. Our only wrongs were their marriage and my existence. And so we removed ourselves.”
“And the ‘incidents’ stopped.”
“So I had thought. But now I believe they have commenced once more.”
“The ghoul?” said Holmes.
“Yes, the ghoul. I cannot think what I have done to anger the foul creature, but it has followed me here, and now I shall lose even the lowly position I had managed to obtain for myself as a watchman and digger of graves.”
“Surely you cannot be blamed for the crimes of a purportedly supernatural creature.”
“Someone has told the owners of the cemetery about my past, and the presumed guilt has followed me just as the ghoul has.”
“And you have no idea who might try to implicate you in such bizarre crimes?”
He shrugged. “There was more than one person in Sheffield who did not like the idea of a mixed marriage, much less a child of mixed blood.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Holmes. “Such people are to be found everywhere. Was there anyone in particular?”
“Stanley Forbes was one. He took delight in torturing me at school. He and his friends made my life … quite unpleasant.”
Holmes nodded, knowing as much, or perhaps more, about schoolboy cruelty as anyone. “I can well believe it. You have not seen the ghoul, I suppose.”
“No, I have seen the ghoul, Mr. Holmes.”
“You have?”
“Yes, once.”
“And it looks nothing like this Forbes?”
“Oh, no. Nothing at all. It is much more horrible. Like nothing living or dead that I have ever seen before.”
“According to what I have read in the Times, the ghoul has opened graves and mutilated corpses in the cemetery where you work.”
“It has, beyond question!” Swaraj said, growing excited. “That I have seen more than once. It is horrible. Horrible! The bodies wee mangled and tossed about, their burial clothing ripped to shreds, their faces torn. It was a sight to frighten even the most valiant.”
“I do not doubt it,” said Holmes. “Nevertheless, I should like to see it for myself.”
Swaraj shook his head. “As much as I covet your help, I do not recommend that you attempt to confront the ghoul. It is …”
“Horrible,” said Holmes. “And frightening. I know. But Watson and I have seen many things that would equal the sight of a ghoul, if not surpass it. Is there any way to predict when the creature will strike?”
“It could come at any time. But most often it comes soon after a burial.”
“When will there be another?” Holmes asked.
“Tomorrow,” said Swaraj. “And if I fail to prevent the ghoul from desecrating the body this time, I will surely lose my employment. It would not be so bad if my father and mother were doing well, but when they came to London, my father could not find a church that would have him. He is working for a greengrocer, and the pay is small. The money I provide is necessary for the family’s survival.”
“Dr. Watson and I will stand watch with you tomorrow night,” said Holmes. “We will see just what this ghoul can do, but you must tell no one that we will be there.”
Although he protested that we need not come, Swaraj was clearly pleased to have company when next he confronted the ghoul, and he wrung our hands as he took his leave. When he had gone, I questioned Holmes.
“Are you quite sure you wish to accost this abominable creature?”
Holmes’s eyes were alight. “Life has been a bit dull lately, Watson, and I can think of nothing that offers more of a challenge at the moment. Can you?”
I admitted that I could not, and Holmes went to the coal scuttle where he kept his cigars. He selected one, and I waited until he had lit it before I said, “You do not believe that the ghoul is a supernatural creature, but what if you are wrong?”
He puffed twice, and smoke curled around his face. Then he said, “I have been wrong before, Watson, as you know.”
“Seldom, I admit.”
Holmes smiled and gave a small nod. “And I do not expect to be wrong this time. Supernatural creatures? They do not exist, my dear Watson, and you know it.” He gave a few more thoughtful puffs and continued. “What do you know about cemeteries, Watson? And about ghouls of the human sort?”
I had to think for a moment before I grasped his meaning, but then I said, “You
are speaking of people like Burke and Hare?”
“‘Burke’s the butcher, Hare’s the thief, Knox the boy that buys the beef,’” said Holmes. He was not much for poetry, but when it came to doggerel of the sort inspired by abhorrent criminal activity, Holmes was as knowledgeable as anyone in England.
“A catchy little ditty,” he went on, “but not the thing I mean. While you are close, Watson, you are still wide of the mark. Burke and Hare were not ghouls in the strictest sense. As a doctor, you must recall that they sold the bodies of their murder victims to the anatomy school, to Dr. Knox, in fact, but they did not snatch the bodies from graves. I was thinking of some of the notorious sack-em-up boys, like the infamous Robert Crouch.”
“Ah, of course. I see what you mean. The body snatchers. But there are no longer such people as Crouch to be found, not since Parliament passed a bill to provide surgeons with bodies from almshouses and morgues and such places as that.”
“True enough, Watson. Not since the bill was passed in 1832, I believe. You studied legally obtained cadavers in the course of your training, I am sure. But what of cemeteries? I am thinking now about the ones in London itself.”
I was certain that Holmes already knew the answer to the question he was posing, as he invariably did. But I happened to know a bit on the subject myself, as it was something that had been discussed during the course of my medical schooling. So I was pleased to be able to answer.
“There was a time,” said I, “and not so long ago at that, when the burial grounds in London were mostly comprised of churchyards, and those had become a positive hazard to the general health. They were crammed so full of the dead that the very bones of the deceased could sometimes be seen protruding from the ground. Children walked above the bodies shoved into shallow graves beneath the floors of schools and chapels, and the living breathed the noxious fumes of decay emitted by the dead. This was quite unhealthy for all concerned, and led to the laws allowing the establishment of private cemeteries, such as St. Marylebone.”
“You do not disappoint me, Watson.” Holmes carelessly flicked the ash from the end of his cigar. “You are a veritable trove of information. And you speak as if you were not horrified at all by the bodies and the decay.”
“To a physician,” I said, “there is nothing horrifying about death. It is part of the process of life.”
“Yet some people fear their inevitable end, just as some fear those whose skin is of a slightly different hue, whereas both death and the difference in coloring among different peoples are perfectly natural.”
“Ignorance is at the root of their fear,” I said. “As it is at the root of most human fears.”
“Well said, Watson. But we are not ignorant men, and therefore we have nothing to fear from ghouls. For if they are supernatural creatures, they do not exist except in the minds of the ignorant. And if they are human, we can defeat them.”
“I suppose so, but are you saying that Swaraj is ignorant?”
“Not entirely ignorant, I am sure, but besides his father’s teachings Benjamin may have absorbed some folkloric background as well. It is only logical that a father would tell his son a bit about the culture of his native land, and children love tales of ghosts and such things. And the father no doubt mentioned something of ghouls when the distressing incidents to which Benjamin alluded occurred.”
“And I?”
Holmes favored me with a thin smile. “You, Watson, do not believe in the ghoul any more than I do. Oh, you may pretend to believe, at least a little, and you may allude to your time in India and what you heard there, but I know that at bottom you are the one of the steadiest and most sensible of men.”
“I thank you, Holmes, for your belief in my good sense, but there are times, I must say, when I suspect that I am far more credulous than you seem to think.”
“We shall see about that when we visit the cemetery tomorrow night,” said he. He turned his cigar in his fingers and gazed at it thoughtfully. “It might be best, Watson, if you bring your pistol along.”
“I most certainly shall,” I said.
Although the weather remained foul, Holmes spent the rest of that day and most of the next outside our apartments. He did not discuss his whereabouts or offer any explanation, nor did I ask for one, being accustomed by now to his occasional unexplained absences.
The evening on which we were to visit the cemetery was as dismal as the ones that preceded it. The air was bitingly cold, and a greasy fog hung in the air, making halos around the gas lamps along the street as we made our way to the St. Marylebone cemetery. We seemed to be the only pedestrians on the dimly-lit streets, though we did pass an occasional cab rattling over the cobbles.
When we reached the gate of the cemetery, Holmes indicated that he would go ahead of me along the path that wound among the monuments and graves.
“All you need do is follow my lead,” he said, “and I will take you to the grave where the late Jonathan Holden is now interred.”
“Holden? The name is not familiar.”
“There is no reason why it should be. He is simply the latest to be buried here. For that, and for other reasons, he is quite a likely candidate for a visit by our ghoul. Come along, Watson. We do not want to miss our appointment with that interesting apparition.”
I followed him as he had asked, and as we wandered along, the way became gradually darker the farther we got from the street. There were no gas lamps inside the cemetery grounds, although their light would hardly have disturbed those sleeping there. Holmes reached into his inverness and withdrew a dark lantern, which he lit, and by its weak beam we made our way along the path. We passed by low headstones and marble monuments depicting white crosses, praying hands, hovering angels, and risen youths, their outlines but dimly glimpsed in the deepening gloom. The fog wreathed the taller ones, hiding some of their bases from our view, and I fancied I could smell the newly turned earth of graves. I stopped to wipe the moisture from my face, assuring myself that it was simply the fog rather than the result of any anxiety I might be feeling.
“We have arrived,” Holmes said, and I confess that I was momentarily startled.
The feeble light of the dark lantern revealed a mound of dark earth, and standing nearby was the figure of a man whom I assumed to be Swaraj. The man started toward us, and I put my hand into the pocket of my overcoat and gripped the pistol I had concealed there.
“I am glad that you have come,” said Swaraj, for it was indeed he, as I could see when he got closer. “Still, I fear for your safety if the ghoul should make an appearance.”
“It has appeared before, and you are unharmed,” Holmes said, sliding the cover over the lens of the lantern.
We were plunged into an eerie kind of semi-darkness. Though the sky was obscured and no trace of moonlight leaked through, the fog itself seemed almost phosphorescent, and I could still see things around me, though they were blurred as if in a dream.
Swaraj looked toward the fresh grave, then down at his feet. “I did not tell you the entire story.”
“I was wondering about that,” said Holmes. “If the ghoul is so vicious, how did you survive its terrors?”
“I ran,” said Swaraj, his eyes still downcast. “I could not face it. It was too terrible.”
“Tonight you shall face it,” said Holmes, “with me and Dr. Watson at your side.”
He looked around us at the strangely blurred monuments. After a moment he said, “There is a good one, Watson, not too far away, yet not so near as to allow the ghoul to sense our presence.”
I looked in the direction he indicated and saw a large tomb, a formidable monument to the departed, no doubt white and shining in the light of day but now an oddly shimmering gray. The tomb’s decorative statuary represented a body apparently being resurrected, breaking its bonds of earth and rising from the cold ground.
“We shall wait behind that admirable edifice,” Holmes continued. “And if the ghoul appears, we shall confront it.”
&nbs
p; “But what of me?” asked Swaraj, looking up at last.
“Follow your usual pattern,” said Holmes. “It should be as if nothing were different.”
“I often sit somewhere nearby to watch over the grave since the ghoul has begun making its visits.”
“Very well. Do that, and we shall remove ourselves.”
With that, Holmes led me behind the tomb, and we endeavored to make ourselves as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. Holmes never seemed bothered by cold and damp, but I confess that they seemed to seep into my joints. The hard ground and the harder tomb against which I waited did nothing to ease the stiffness that overtook me in the silent darkness.
I judged that almost two hours had passed when Holmes gave me a gentle nudge. I may have been dozing, for I jerked away from the tomb, my hand grappling in my pocket for the pistol.
“Not yet, Watson,” Holmes whispered. “But soon, I think. Come along.”
He rose up and crept to the corner of the tomb, and after he had peered around it, he motioned for me to follow, which I did, my joints protesting creakily. What I saw when I looked around the end of the tomb caused me to come erect at once, taking no notice of complaining joints.
Above the grave beside which Swaraj stood rooted in terror there floated the bulbous snaggle-toothed face of the ghoul, its mouth frozen in a horrific grimace. It swooped down toward Swaraj, who swung at it with a shovel that he had held concealed by his side. He missed his mark, and the head flew away with a chilling laugh before swooping again. Swaraj struck again with the shovel, missed again, and threw the shovel at the thing, which easily dodged it. Swaraj tried to hold steady, but his knees buckled and he collapsed to the ground.
“Now, Watson!” cried Holmes, and taking his meaning, I drew my pistol and fired at that dreadful swooping face. My first shot missed, but Holmes was already off and running in the direction of the grave. I fired again and was more successful, but the result was unexpected. The face of the ghoul exploded into fragments which flew away and disappeared in the fog.