Shadows over Baker Street

by John Pelan;Michael Reaves

  “Thank you kindly for letting me come on such short notice,” he said as he shook our hands.

  “I have no doubt that it was necessary,” Holmes said. “Watson, permit me to introduce you to Thomas Stone, apprentice cook at the Grand Hotel.”

  “The two of you have already met, then?” I asked, but one glance at our guest’s astounded face told me that it was not so.

  “I never laid eyes on the gentleman until this very moment. But I suspected he was in the restaurant business when I read the note, and I knew I was correct the moment he came in.”

  “I can’t imagine how you knew it, sir,” said the awed young man.

  “You used the word luncheon in your note. Most people would say midday, unless they had reason to measure out the day in meals. As well, the note was written on a scrap of invoice from a Dover fish merchant. On the reverse of the paper I found the letters TEL and the word sole. What sort of establishment would receive such an invoice? The restaurant in a fine hotel. I heard no cab outdoors before you entered, and there is no mud on your shoes, so I deduced that you came from nearby. The Grand’s restaurant is the only one in the area fine enough to serve Dover sole.”

  “But surely he might have come from somewhere other than his workplace!” I ejaculated.

  “Observe the stains on his trouser cuffs, Watson. Traces of grime from the kitchen, and a fragment of fresh parsley there in his boot lace. As for his position, observe the heavy callus on the second joint of his right forefinger. That sort of callus comes from a long acquaintance with a knife, though perhaps not quite long enough to become the head chef. And his eyes lack the chef’s tyrannical gleam. No, he must be the apprentice. If I am wrong, I shall cook supper for him with my own two hands. Am I wrong, Mr. Stone? For the sake of your digestion, I hope I am not.”

  “Not at all, sir. I been apprentice cook at the Grand for two years under Chef John Sutcliffe. But that’s not why I come.”

  “No,” I recalled, “your note said you feared for your sister’s life. Whatever is wrong with the girl?”

  “Ah, my poor Violet,” Stone began. But he got no further, for Holmes shot out of his chair and snatched up a newspaper from the table. “Your sister is Violet Stone?” Holmes demanded.

  “Who on earth is Violet Stone?” I said.

  “Forgive me, Watson. I forget that you read no part of the dailies save the financial news. You might do well to take a closer interest in the doings of your fellow citizens!”

  I began to sputter, for Holmes had always spoken contemptuously of human-interest stories, claiming the minutiae of people’s lives were inconsequential unless he could study them with his own keen eyes. Holmes handed me the newspaper, pointing out a story, and I subsided as I scanned the headlines.

  GIRL HAS EATEN NOTHING FOR THREE YEARS

  Mother tells reporter, “She subsists on air and faith”

  AN ANOMALY OF NATURE

  PHYSICIANS SAY “PREPOSTEROUS!”

  BUT CAN FIND NO EVIDENCE OF IMBIBITION

  I read the accompanying feature and learned that Miss Violet Stone of 10 Percy Lane, Highgate, had become ill three years before on holiday in Greece. She had swum in an island pond and taken a chill, after which her family reported she was never the same. Gradually she ate less and less until she could be made to swallow nothing; she would retch and choke when food was pressed upon her, and reject whatever was forced down her throat. Recently a charwoman had left the family’s employ and reported the strange case to the newspapers.

  “I agree with my colleague, whoever he may be,” I said. “The story is preposterous. If Miss Stone had truly stopped eating and drinking, she would have expired after thirty or forty days at the outside. You see, the human body is like that fire there.” I pointed at the grate, where a few logs were blazing merrily. “It burns because it has fuel. Take away the logs and you have no more fire.”

  “A pretty analogy,” said Holmes, “but the fire is also fed by oxygen. Smother it and you will extinguish it. Yet you cannot see the oxygen, and if you were not a learned man, you would have no evidence that oxygen existed at all.”

  “Are you suggesting that Miss Stone subsists on something unknown to science?”

  “Not at all,” said Holmes, who had begun to pare his nails with a Malay kris. “I was merely pointing out a flaw in your analogy.”

  “If you please, sirs,” said Stone timidly. Holmes and I looked at him, surprised; we had become so interested in the tale of his sister that I believe we had both half forgotten he was there.

  “Forgive us,” said Holmes. “We are a pair of old pedants, nothing more. Because your family name is a common one, I failed to connect your note with the newspaper article until you told us your sister’s Christian name was Violet. Pray go on.”

  “Well, it is true that she never eats, at least not that I can tell. My hours at the Grand are long and I only see my family in the early mornings, and sometimes if Chef gives me a day off. But neither she nor Mother has ever told a falsehood that I know of. And why would she lie? Why would she suffer deliberately?”

  “Is she suffering, then?” Holmes asked.

  “Her body is thin and twisted, but she claims no hunger. She says she takes her sustenance from other realms and needs no food on this earth. That’s a bit of a blow to me, as you might imagine—I used to cook little things for her when she first became ill. Custards and the like. Now she says swallowing one of my custards would be as painful as swallowing hot coals.”

  “Indeed! And she has been so ever since taking a swim on holiday?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Three years ago our great-aunt died and left some money to our mother. Our father’s been dead since I was small, you see, and he left us comfortable, but there was never any money for extras. My mother had always wanted to stand among Grecian ruins and feel the ancient wind blowing through her hair—that was how she put it, like. She’s got a bit of a poetic soul. I couldn’t leave the kitchen, but I insisted she and Violet use the money for a holiday.

  “They were picnicking on the isle of Knoxos one day when Violet saw a clear pond and went for a swim. She wasn’t usually the swimming sort, but Mother says she saw something glimmering on the bottom and wanted to dive for it—thought it might be a coin of antiquity or some such. It was nothing, Violet said, only a trick of the sunlight on the water—but that night she took ill, and they had to sail for home a fortnight earlier than they’d intended. Mother thought she would improve once they reached London, but she took to her bed and hasn’t got up since.”

  “What are her symptoms?”

  “While still on Knoxos, she suffered amnesia—though it was almost as though she tried to hide it. She pretended to know Mother, but could not answer the simplest questions about our lives back in London. When she returned I could see she didn’t know me either. I sat with her whenever I had a moment, telling her tales of our childhood, often reading to her. She dotes on being read to. It’s queer, though—before the accident she used to enjoy newspapers and modern novels. Now she prefers tomes I scarcely understand the like of, myself. Not long ago she asked me to bring her something called the Necronomicon, but I’ve not been able to find it in any of the high-street bookshops.”

  “The Necronomicon!” Holmes murmured. “What could a young English lady want with that moldy bit of occult trash?”

  “Many nights she stays up scribbling in a little book. It is one of the few tasks she can still make herself do. She’s recovered from her amnesia, or at any rate she knows us, even if she had to relearn everything like a newborn babe. But she never recovered from her physical illness. First her body burned with fever. She would rave and screech in a tongue no one could understand. I don’t mind telling you the sound of it gave me a nasty turn, and it nearly shattered my poor mother’s nerves altogether.

  “When the fever finally passed, Violet’s limbs began to wither and draw up like those of an old woman. Finally she stopped eating or drinking altogether, and we thought s
he would leave us then, but she lives yet. Sometimes she says she wishes to die, yet she still has this thirst for knowledge.”

  Holmes had perched on the edge of his chair listening to Stone’s tale. Now he stood and reached for his hat. “Well, Watson, there’s nothing else for it—we must see Miss Violet Stone.”

  Knowing there would be no rest for myself, Holmes, or the unfortunate Mr. Stone until we had, I donned my greatcoat and followed Holmes and the younger man out to the street. A cab was summoned and our trio rode over London’s slick gray cobbles into the dim afternoon.

  Holmes produced from his waistcoat his faithful pipe and a pouch of tobacco. Meditatively tamping the bowl and gazing out the window of the carriage, he queried, “Pray, Mr. Stone, is there anything further you can tell us about your sister’s condition? Watson is quite a fine physician. Perhaps he can glean something from your description.”

  The courteous lad inclined his head to me before saying, “I hardly know where to begin, sir.”

  “I should say that of all places, the beginning would be the best place to begin. Wouldn’t you agree, Watson? Tell us what you observed of her initial symptoms, and of the amnesia that afflicted your poor sister.”

  Puffing small plumes of blue smoke, Holmes leaned back against the cushions. His eyelids drooped, as they tended to do when he was listening to something with his peculiar powers of attention. When Holmes’s senses were most alive, his narrow frame always gave an impression of deep lassitude. Many a careless liar had allowed himself to be tripped up by the seeming inattention of this posture.

  Young Stone, however, hardly seemed the sort who would have any reason to lie to us. His solemn face clouded as he cast his mind back to the time three years before. “It was like our Violet was gone altogether, sir,” he said. “Her voice was musical before, and her laugh like a bird singing. She was full of life, and when she talked, she would always move her hands, like. It was as if she was drawing pictures in the air of what she was telling you. When the awful fever finally passed and she could speak again without raving, all the light in her was gone out.”

  The young man paused to take a deep breath and wipe at his eyes, stubbornly blinking at tears. Clearly, he was deeply affected by the tragic change wrought in his sister. Although he had years since reached his majority, for a moment the exhausted young cook before us was gone and we saw an overtired little boy struggling to keep his feelings in check.

  “She’s different now. She never laughs. Her voice is flat, no spark anymore. Honestly, sir, it’s like she’s a different girl.” He sighed heavily and wiped at his eyes again. “And I fear that she’ll pass away anytime. How can she not eat, sir? How can she not eat and stay alive?”

  “I hope to discern that, young man,” replied Holmes.

  The cab had entered the sleepy terraces of Highgate and pulled up to the address Stone had provided. To all externals, the house was normal enough, another tall narrow building among many, each with its own gate and patch of yard. But Stone’s despair had communicated itself to me sufficiently that I could not look upon the Stones’ house with an objective eye: its half-shrouded windows became drooping eyes, its sooty walls the dull complexion of the sickbed.

  Fog pressed moist fat lips to our faces as Stone led us up to the door. We were greeted by an emerald-eyed young maid who accepted our coats. “I’ll go tell the mistress you’re in, Mr. Stone,” she said, a mild Irish burr in her voice.

  All was as the young man had described. The Stones appeared to be comfortable, but not among London’s elegant upper tiers of families. The house was decorated comfortably, but the occasional carpet edge was frayed, and the drawing-room chairs gave testament to many hours of use.

  “Tom, who are these gentlemen?” said a voice from the hallway, and thusly we made the acquaintance of Mrs. Stone, a matronly widow swathed in a dress of figured bombazine. Her face was kind but careworn, and faint purplish smudges around her eyes spoke of anxious hours and lost sleep.

  “This is Sherlock Holmes, Mum,” said Thomas. “And Dr. Watson is a physician.”

  “Ah, yes,” replied Mrs. Stone. “I have read your names in the Times. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I will have Anna bring us some tea, or perhaps a bit of claret?”

  “Mum,” said Stone, “I’ve brought them to see Violet. Mr. Holmes is quite learned, as you might know.”

  At the mention of her daughter’s name, Mrs. Stone’s shoulders fell as if a great weight had fallen on them. “Oh, my poor Violet,” she said, “I know not how she continues to draw breath in this world.”

  “Is it true, madam, that she has taken no food or drink in three years?” Holmes inquired.

  “Yes, sir, it is quite true. She has wasted away to almost nothing, and yet she continues to thrive, after a fashion. We have done everything we can to keep her comfortable, but as Tom must have told you, she hardly seems the same girl at all.”

  “Well, then, claret will have to wait,” Holmes said. “If it is not too much trouble, may we see her at once?”

  “The present moment is as good as any other,” said the weary mother, “for she is at all hours much the same. She hardly seems to sleep. Her eyes never close. There are times when she speaks less and goes entirely still in the bed, her breathing the only sign of life, but we have never known her to sleep as others do since all this began.”

  We were led up the stairs and to a narrow hall where three doors led, doubtless, to the respective bedchambers of the Stone family. A faint redolence of jasmine hovered in the hall, a sachet perhaps.

  Mrs. Stone turned to the leftmost door and silently opened it. The lamps in the bedchamber were turned low, and the murky dimness of the afternoon reached through the windows and sank the corners in gloom. When first I observed the maid kneeling at the foot of the bed, I thought she was performing some service for the bedridden girl. It was only upon closer inspection that I discerned the Catholic rosary beads dangling from the maid’s clasped hands.

  “Anna!” barked Mrs. Stone. “How could you?”

  The poor maid clutched the beads to her bosom, and it was then that I noticed her cheeks were streaked with tears.

  “B-but, ma’am,” she protested, “surely ’tis a miracle! She is a saint!”

  “I have told you before, Anna,” said Mrs. Stone, storm clouds collecting on her brow, “we’ll have none of that Papist claptrap in this house! Captain Stone was a Protestant like myself, and that is how I have raised our children!”

  “Please, Mum,” interrupted young Mr. Stone. “Our guests . . .”

  “Indeed,” replied the widow, regaining her composure. “Anna, wait for me downstairs. These gentlemen are here to see Violet.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” replied the frightened maid, who then hurriedly left the room.

  It was then that we beheld the stricken girl for the first time. Drawing aside one of the hangings around the narrow bed, the mother gestured us forward.

  “Here she is,” said the mother, “my poor dear.”

  The girl, perhaps seventeen, huddled in an implausibly small bundle beneath the coverlet. Her arms were mere sticks, her fingers small twigs scratching weakly at her lace-trimmed pillow. Her face may at one time have been quite comely, but the visage now was sunken, cheeks drawn in, complexion the pearly blue white of the recently departed. If I am to be wholly honest, she looked like something I would have expected to see on a mortuary table, not in a shabbily genteel Highgate bedchamber. Only the blazing eyes set in that livid face gave any indication of life.

  “Mother?” she said softly, her voice barely more than a rasp.

  “Yes, dear, and Tom is here early today. He has brought a doctor and another friend.” With one hand, Mrs. Stone urged us to come closer.

  “Another doctor?” the wraithlike girl asked in a tone of resignation. Over time, she had doubtless come to associate the visits of physicians with gropings of her fragile limbs, tests of the blood, and other discomforts.

  “Mi
ss Stone,” said Holmes, bowing to the girl, “I am Sherlock Holmes. This is my—”

  But before Holmes could finish his introductions, the girl lunged forward in the bed and seized Holmes’s right arm by the wrist. “You!” she cried, her bright eyes burning with that eerie, maniacal fire. Her tiny hand was withered almost to a claw, but her grip on my friend’s arm must have been preternaturally strong, for Holmes did not pull away. Never had I known him to bear unexpected physical touch with anything like equanimity. However, in this instance, he stood quite still, nor did he speak or betray any emotion whatsoever.

  “You can help me,” gasped the girl. “Yes, you. You have the necessary mental capacities.”

  “What’s this?” I demanded, edging forward even as both the Stones took involuntary steps back from the suddenly animated girl.

  “I have come here by mistake. It has all gone quite badly. We are new to this science of replacement. I am trapped here in the body of this girl child and I must return. There have been errors in the process. We are imperfectly joined.” The girl seemed quite out of her mind.

  “I see,” said Holmes, his face a curious blank mask.

  “You have access to a lens grinder? A metallurgist? Perhaps the shop of a machinist?” The girl’s pale eyes were desperate. All the life essence in her form seemed concentrated in those eyes. Her skin, hair, even the grayish bedclothes pooling at her waist seemed drained of any spark or color, but her eyes were as bright as those of the unfortunate lunatics I had been called upon to treat in London’s sanatoriums.

  “Yes, all of those,” Holmes replied, still oddly blank of aspect and strangely passive before this wild-eyed wraith of a girl.

  “You must help me,” the girl reiterated. “Tom?”

  “Yes, Violet?” answered Stone after a pause, still recovering from the shock of his sister’s sudden animation.