A Study in Brimstone

by G. S. Denning

  “Who did?” I asked.

  “Man with the pipe,” she said, eyeing me as if I were an imbecilic child.

  “That is not helpful, Mrs. Hudson.”

  “Go easy, Watson,” said Holmes. “You can hardly have expected more, eh?”

  “You don’t think so?” With a huff, I snatched the pipe from our stunted landlady and turned it over once or twice in my hands, examining it.

  “The man who owns this pipe is left-handed, just as you are, Holmes. He has a strong grip and good teeth; he is not wealthy, but comfortable enough not to have to worry about extra expenses. He is a man who prizes old comforts, but not enough to take care to preserve them.”

  “I can do better than that,” Holmes scoffed. “Hand it to me.”

  As he stepped forward to take the pipe, his coat began billowing about his frame in a manner that foretold a fairly impressive demonic consultation was about to begin. I placed a hand against his chest, held the pipe away from him and said, “I do not doubt, Holmes, that you could find a way to tell me the man’s name, his hair color, his favorite tie and what he ate for dinner last Wednesday. That is not the point. The point is to learn as much as you can from the clues presented to you.”

  “That is the hard way,” he complained. “Besides which, I can do better.”

  “You can’t! I won’t let you. Listen, Holmes… See how the pipe is singed down its right side? No simple match does that; he likely lights it from a burner or—since that is liable to sear the hand—a gas lamp.”

  “So?”

  “See how the burns are all on one side? That means he must have held it on the other. Observe how my hand covers them if I use my right. He must therefore regularly hold this pipe with his left. He has gnawed all down the amber of the stem; to leave such marks, he must possess a strong bite and good teeth.”

  “I don’t care about such things, Watson.”

  “Well you ought to, or you will be caught!”

  “Caught at what?” asked Mrs. Hudson.

  “Nothing!” Holmes and I said together. Mrs. Hudson frowned even harder and made her way out. At least she had a good sense of when she was intruding—a pity it did not stop her doing so whenever the chance presented.

  I tried a different tack. “Here, Holmes, hold the pipe in your left hand and see if you can tell me why I suppose the owner has a strong grip.”

  He gave a huff to indicate that he was only doing so to humor me, then took the pipe from my hand. At first he seemed uninterested, but as he turned it from side to side, I could see his curiosity getting the better of him.

  “Your thumb is on it, right now,” I prompted.

  “Yes… It’s this silver band, I suppose. It seems a touch jagged and irregular. What is it?”

  “Well done, Holmes! It is a repair. With only the strength of his thumb, our man has accidentally snapped off the stem of his pipe, then had it repaired with silver. Such a repair would cost more than the pipe had originally. Also, it would take more time than simply purchasing a new pipe, but he was willing to go to the expense and also to stand the wait. Why? Because he loves old, familiar things.”

  “But not enough to keep him from thrusting them into gas lamps.”

  “Precisely, Holmes! By Jove, we shall make a detective of you yet!” I clapped him on the shoulder and he beamed proudly at me, but our reverie was cut short. Before either of us could utter another word, a tall man in his late thirties or early forties came up the stairs and swept past us. He marched into our sitting room, flung himself upon one of the armchairs by the fire, heaved a sigh of annoyance and began patting down his pockets.

  “Who is that?” inquired Holmes. “What is he doing?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but I would suppose he is searching for his lost pipe.”

  Holmes and I followed our strange visitor into our chambers. I held his pipe out towards him and asked, “Were you looking for this, sir?”

  “I was!” he said, at first delighted. Then his expression returned to one of annoyance and he asked, “How did you get it? Who are you?”

  “I am Dr. John Watson and this is Warlock Holmes. We live here.”

  “Capital! You are just the fellows I came to see! I must… Hang on a moment… Did I knock?”

  “You did not.”

  Our guest threw his hands up and cried, “Ah! I am sorry, gentlemen, heartily sorry. The truth is I am so put out that I cannot concentrate. I hardly know where I am and I’ll be dashed if I know what to do with myself.”

  “Perhaps we can help, Mr. Munro,” I offered.

  “Yes, I… By God! How did you know my name?”

  “It is written inside the brim of your hat, which is turned towards us.” I fixed Holmes with a look that said he ought to remember this trick and endeavor to repeat it whenever possible.

  “Ah. Yes, so it is,” said our guest, with a nervous laugh, “Mr. Grant Munro. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Likewise,” said I.

  “I came because I have seen Mr. Holmes’s name in the paper. I will confess: I previously made sport of you, sir. But my wife seems to think you one of only a few in London who possesses a true understanding of the world at large.”

  “She sounds like a wonderful lady.” Holmes beamed. He joined Munro by the fire, sinking into the remaining armchair. I took a seat on the sofa.

  “She is. And—as it is she whom I wish to consult you about—I chose to follow her advice and seek your help above all others.”

  “I shall do my utmost to justify her confidence in me,” said Holmes. “Now, tell all. What has upset you so?”

  “My wife! Now, I understand that the fashion is for a man to care for his wife but also maintain a certain aloofness. Ask most men and they will tell you they love their wives, but they will also speak of how they are henpecked. They may accuse women of pettiness or smile at the failings of what they call ‘the weaker sex,’ but I will not. I love my wife, gentlemen, and I tell you that I never did anything to deserve so fine a companion. She dotes upon me! She sees to my every whim and care. She cooks my meals, brings my tea and slippers, she rubs my shoulders when I am distraught and listens to my every gripe, though I know my problems are often petty. All the while, she treats me as if I am the best, most noble creature that ever walked the earth. Well, I protest that I am not, but she very well may be. We have known one another three years now and spent them each declaring the other to be our better. We live in a state of mutual worship.”

  “It sounds like the ideal match.” I smiled. “Why, if man could design himself the perfect companion, it sounds as if your wife would be the result.”

  “It does,” said Holmes, though some thought made him crease his brow as he said it.

  “But now she has become distant,” Munro wailed. “Something which I do not understand has come between us and… Oh God! What shall I do? I cannot bear the thought of losing her, gentlemen. I do not understand what has happened and I do not know what to do and I dread the consequences!”

  “Calm yourself, Mr. Munro,” I urged. “You must tell us exactly what has upset you so. When did it begin?”

  “Well, the first thing—the first strange thing I can think of—occurred about six weeks ago. She came to me and asked if she might have some money. She asked if she might have a hundred pounds.”

  “What for?” I wondered.

  “That is what I wanted to know,” said Munro. “Understand, that if she had wished to purchase the world’s most expensive biscuit, I should not have protested. The money is hers by right. She was a widow when we met, just recently arrived from America. She’d been left well-monied by her previous husband and when we wed, she insisted on transferring all this wealth to me. It and all she owned belonged to me, just as she belonged to me, she said. Of course I protested that it was not her money that had captured my interest. She said she knew it was not, but that I must take it anyway, for I was master now.”

  I shook my head and declared, �
�I have read of such things in cheap romances, but I never thought a real flesh-and-blood woman might do such a thing. What do you think, Holmes?”

  He was lost in thought, distant and worried. “I do not suppose a real woman would, Watson.”

  “But the important thing,” Munro continued, “is that she didn’t tell me why she needed one hundred pounds. We had never kept secrets before. I tried to put it out of my mind, but over the following weeks the thought would return and vex me. What could she be keeping from me? But then, the day before yesterday, I had another shock that almost chased it from my mind. My home is in Norbury. On our lane is a little cottage, which had been vacant since we moved in, but which had just begun to show signs of life. As I passed the cottage that night, I cast my eyes up at it, wondering who my new neighbors might be and when I should call upon them. Just then I saw… the thing…”

  Here he stopped and wrung his hands for a few moments. With no trace of judgment or humor, Holmes asked, “What kind of thing?”

  “Silly. So silly to say… It was only a face—a man’s face, I think—but there was something about it, Mr. Holmes. It seemed… false somehow. It was rigid and… well, I cannot describe just what was wrong with it, but as I beheld it I had the feeling that it had come for me from a long, long way away and I would never be free of it. Well, I ran right home to tell Effie all about it—”

  “F.E.?” Holmes interjected.

  “Yes. My wife—Effie.”

  “You married a Final Edition? Cad! Sorcerer! Anthromancer! Get away from him, Watson!”

  At this, Holmes rolled out of his armchair, crashing to the floor. His left hand groped towards the fireplace until it chanced across the coal scuttle, which Holmes snatched up and flung at our guest, scattering bouncing pieces of coal across half the sitting room.

  “Holmes!”

  “I… I don’t understand!” cried Munro. “Have I said something wrong? Effie is only a name—my wife’s name!”

  “Not a particularly uncommon one, I think you’ll find,” I added, raising a warning eyebrow.

  Holmes would not be soothed. “But think of the creature he describes, Watson! She is totally devoted to her mate! Devoid of free will, she dedicates all her effort, all she owns and all she is to her husband, without reserve. You yourself doubted that a real woman would do such a thing, Watson. You are right! You asked whether—given the chance to design their ideal mate—men would not create exactly such a creature. Don’t you see? They did!”

  “Holmes is possessed of a magnificent imagination,” I told Munro.

  “Anthromancers,” Holmes continued, contorting his hands into disgusted claws, “lonely malefactors—twisted creators of the saddest creatures that live. No woman would touch such a dark practitioner, Watson, so they turned their forbidden arts to the creation of one that would! The first generation was easy to spot; they had rubber skin. The Nexus Twos were halting automatons with immobile smiles they had no power to change. The Nexus Fours were simple pleasure models, but the Sixes were an impressive achievement. Just before their cabal broke up, the anthromancers produced a few Final Edition Nexus Sixes, capable of giving them their deepest, most chilling desire—heirs.”

  “I apologize for my friend…”

  “He is a wicked sorcerer, Watson!”

  “But I am not!” Munro protested. “I am a simple hop merchant!”

  “Hops?” Holmes roared. “What are those? Are they vile?”

  “They are plants, sir, used in the brewing of beer.”

  “Huh… Is that all?” said Holmes, visibly confused. “Well… beer is slightly vile, I suppose. You are sure you’re not a sorcerer?”

  “Preposterous,” said Munro.

  “I could have sworn…” mumbled Holmes, returning to his chair.

  Realizing the time was ripe for me to regain control, I said, “Regardless of my friend’s wild theories, I am curious to know how Effie reacted to the news about this rigid face.”

  “She told me I was being silly and must not be worried by such things. Yet she was much disturbed by the news. She seemed near tears all through dinner, but I could not draw the cause of this anxiety from her. When we went to bed that night, she did not sleep. Eventually I nodded off, but I am sure Effie lay still awake. I was unsettled and slept lightly. I awoke around three in the morning, to find Effie just removing her cloak. She smelled of cold night air and I could tell in an instant she had been outside.

  “‘Wherever have you gone?’ I asked her.

  “‘Only to take a walk along the lane,’ said she, then paused and added, ‘Grant, I may need more money.’

  “Well, I was very interested to know why she had suddenly begun the habit of walking the lane at night and what had occurred there to convince her she needed funds. She would not tell me. She said she could not—that she was bound by promises that pre-dated the ones she had made to me and which she had no power to break. She enjoined me not to worry and said that, if I did as she said, our happiness need not be interrupted. Well, that set me in a highly worried state and I pleaded with her until the dawn to tell me what was happening. She would not be moved and so, as the sun began to rise, I climbed from our bed to begin my work day.”

  “You must have been exhausted,” said Holmes.

  “I was, but more than that, I was distracted. As I passed the cottage, I noticed lights in the downstairs window and a shadow upon the curtain. I had the feeling that whatever was bothering Effie might have to do with the new occupants. Since they were up, I resolved to meet them. I went up to the door and knocked. In a moment there was a bustling, then the door opened to reveal a… how shall I describe her… a tough old battleaxe of a woman. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, stern and with little time for interruptions, but what stood out about her were her injuries.”

  “Injuries?” said I.

  “Yes. She had a tremendous bruise on her neck that ran down under her collar. One arm hung limp and seemingly useless. And her face! She had the most magnificently scratched face—as if she had just lost an argument with a jaguar. She stared at me, but said nothing.

  “‘Hello,’ I said, ‘I am your neighbor, Mr. Grant Munro. I just wanted to stop by and welcome you to the neighborhood. If there is anything you require while you are settling in—’

  “But she cut me off! She said, ‘We’ll call if we need ya,’ in the most horrible American drawl and shut the door, right in my face. As I trudged back down the path to the lane, I turned back and saw the man again at the upstairs window. I was closer this time, so I just made out a pencil-thin moustache and slick black hair, but again, it seemed rigid and immobile to me.”

  “Could you tell the age of this man?” I asked.

  “No,” said Munro. “I only remember dwelling on how unnaturally white and shining his skin seemed. He was at the window only a moment, then disappeared. I don’t mind telling you, gentlemen: I was distraught. I did not go to work, but instead to the local inn, where I took a little food and an early draught. I sat and pondered what I should do. Soon it was almost lunchtime and I had no stratagem. I elected to simply head back and ask Effie what she knew of the cottage’s occupants.

  “I made my way back home, but when I got there, Effie was gone! The maid looked affrighted to see me. When I asked her where Effie was, she said her mistress was taking the air and would be back presently. She then got me settled in my chair with a warm cup of tea and asked me to wait. I found myself too anxious to comply, so I stood and began to pace. When I passed the window, what should I see but our maid, hastily running down the lane towards the cottage! I realized Effie must have gone there and set the maid to warn her if I returned home. I set out after her, but by the time I had my shoes and coat on, she had already reached the cottage. When I got there, I did not knock or wait for entry. I flung open the door and stepped inside, resolved to confront my wife, my maid, the scratched-up crone and the strange man in the upstairs room.”

  “Did you?” asked Holmes, leaning
forward as the tale quickened. He was practically at the edge of his seat.

  “No! There was nobody there! No one! I ran to the upstairs room and found it empty. It was in a terrible state and I could hardly believe anybody would be living there, but on the windowsill I found a photograph in a silver frame. It was a portrait of Effie, which I had commissioned only three months before!”

  “Sorcery! Witchcraft!” cried Holmes.

  “No, it isn’t,” I said. “Think, Holmes: if Effie does indeed have dealings with the strange new neighbors, might she not have taken the picture over herself?”

  “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Well, you should have. This fact is far from supernatural, but it does prove two things. First: Mr. Munro is right and his wife’s recent disturbance is tied to the appearance of the new neighbors.”

  “Second?” asked Mr. Munro, eager for any relief of his anxiety.

  “That whoever resides in the upstairs room knows Effie well enough to desire a picture of her. I have begun to form a theory, but I would like to hear the rest of Mr. Munro’s tale before I speak of it. Pray, continue.”

  “Well, I suspected they must have escaped out the back door as I approached the front,” said Munro, “so I ran out after them, towards the woods. As I neared, who should emerge but Effie herself.

  “‘Grant, you must not go in there,’ said she. ‘If you do, all our happiness is ruined. Please, just a little more time and more money and we can live untroubled.’

  “I tried to push past her, but she blocked my path and threw me back. I tried again, but she threw me—bodily threw me—away from the woods. We were both in tears at that point and I stumbled clear. I did not know what to do, Mr. Holmes. I wandered. Eventually I found my way here. I have not seen my home or my wife since yesterday afternoon and I cannot guess as to their state.”