“That’s the projector! A momentary jam. The film’s breaking down.” He stepped away from the projection. “I need to turn it off.”
“No!” Lestrade barked. “Play it again. Good God, man! I’ll show you. It was there, a split second before impact.”
Holmes hit the switch, freezing the image just as Mrs. Calibri made her final adjustment to the wine table. And then the film was rolling forward again, clattering inexorably toward the atomization of Calibri’s head.
“Stop,” I muttered, finally realizing why Holmes had pressed me to leave the room. “Stop it!” But my voice was lost beneath the clatter of the machine as the magician’s head exploded once more.
And then the film jumped again.
“There!” Lestrade cried, rising to his feet, pointing at the image.
The clattering stopped, giving way to a straining hum.
Holmes turned to the projector.
On the sheets, Calibri sat on his backless chair, leaning backward, head frozen in the moment of disintegration. I stared, trying to comprehend what I was seeing as the image bubbled, curling back to reveal an empty frame of blinding light.
“The film!” Holmes shouted.
I turned to see him shielding his face as the projector burst into flames. A gust rose past me, nearly lifting me from the chair as the conflagration erupted first into a pillar of fire, then into a fulmination of noxious smoke. The fire collapsed, leaving the room dark, the air unbreathable…
“Window!” Lestrade coughed, stumbling past me in the heavy air. I heard a hiss of fabric, a clatter of curtain rings, and then the click and groan of an opening casement. I saw him then, silhouetted in the lamplight through the open window, centered in the bay as he leaned out into the night.
I joined him.
“Infernal machine!” he coughed again as Holmes moved along side him. “Is the film—”
“Gone,” Holmes said.
“But I saw the trick!” Lestrade said. “The image jumped while Guignol was still behind the curtain. The exchange happened then.”
“Exchange?” I said.
“Guignol for Calibri,” Holmes said. “The good inspector has become quite creative in his deduction.”
I tried putting it together. “You’re saying that Guignol and Calibri changed places? That it was Guignol who took the bullet?”
“That’s my theory,” Lestrade said.
“But the rice-paper partition slides back at the end,” I said. “Guignol looks out. I saw him!”
“You saw a hideously deformed face,” Lestrade said. “A face that might well have been a mask.”
“That’s likely enough,” Holmes said. “Guignol was certainly wearing a mask, a bit of theatre to corroborate the fiction of his failed bullet-catching experiment.”
I turned to Holmes, his face now visible in the streetlight. Some of the smoke had cleared, but the smell lingered — a terrible stink like burned vinegar, charred wood, scorched metal. “So then it is Guignol’s body in Calibri’s grave?”
“That’s my suggestion,” Lestrade said. “Magicians often employ doubles. I propose that Guignol was an actor whose proportions would make his headless body a perfect substitute for Calibri.”
“Ingenious,” I said.
“But not credible.” Holmes leaned back from the casement. “It raises too many questions.”
“You and your questions!” Lestrade said. “I came here for answers.”
“Answers will follow, but first let us consider why Guignol would willingly exchange places with Calibri?”
“No doubt because he was told to,” Lestrade said. “He was the assistant, after all.”
“I’m confused,” I said. “Do you mean that Guignol consented to having his head blown off?”
“Not at all. The bullet-catch is a trick. The gun is not supposed to be loaded.”
“This one was!”
“But the assistant would not have known that. He took the seat because he trusted Calibri.”
“These are clever suppositions,” Holmes said. “But they hinge on a nonexistent detail.” He straightened up as he spoke, turning toward us in the dim air. “The image on the film did not jump.”
“But it did!” Lestrade insisted. “Right before the fire!”
“That was a jump within the mechanism, a projection error.” He studied us gravely. “I fear, gentleman, that our viewing of the film supports only one conclusion: the man who took the bullet-bomb was none other than the Great Calibri.”
“But how?” Lestrade asked. “If the whole thing is supposed to be a trick—”
“Supposed to be,” Holmes said. “But what if his wife and the actor playing Guignol had conspired against Calibri? We know that Mrs. Calibri was in charge of the books. What if she had been diverting the receipts, leaving creditors unpaid while she and her lover planned an escape to America.”
“But why leave the film and notes behind?” I asked. “Why leave a record of the murder?”
“Because it appears to be the record of an accident,” Holmes said. “The lovers evidently wanted to give the impression that Calibri was working out a way to actually deflect an explosive projectile. But this is all supposition. I suggest that you need to take such questions up with Mrs. Calibri.” Holmes turned toward Lestrade. “Does Scotland Yard have the name of the ship that the magician’s wife was seen boarding?”
“It does.”
“Then a telegraph to the port of destination is certainly in order.”
“And Guignol?” Lestrade asked.
“Find the widow, and you’ll find your man. At this point, I doubt either is inclined to let the other travel alone.”
I sat on the windowsill, putting it all together. “So it was a trick,” I said. “A trick played against Calibri.” I felt my gorge rise. “That means—” I could not finish the statement.
Holmes understood. He nodded and turned away, heading back into the room.
Lestrade looked at me. In our previous meetings, he had never impressed me as a sensitive man. Tonight, however, he looked shaken. “Strange,” he said. “I spent so much time looking for the illusion that—” He paused, swallowed, looked away. “We watched him die, Watson.”
“A terrible murder.”
“Not just once, but over and over.”
“Forward and backward.”
He looked into the room, toward Holmes, who had once again positioned himself beside the ruins of the infernal device. “Thank God the fire took it!” Lestrade said. “I never thought I would say such a thing about evidence, but I’m glad it’s gone!”
“No,” Holmes said, still looking down, speaking into his hand. “Not gone. Just beginning.”
“And how’s that?” I asked.
“This machine,” he said. “It can record anything.”
“Could,” I corrected. “It could record anything, but not any more.”
“But there are others. Soon there will be more. Think of it, Watson. Can you imagine a time when such spectacle as we witnessed tonight can be brought into the home for private viewing, played again and again?”
“I hardly think such things are likely.”
Holmes looked at me, eyes dark, his face unreadable. “I feel a chill, old friend.” He gestured toward the street. “Would you be so kind as to close that casement? And pull those sheets together, lest the damage to this room be seen from the street.”
I did as he said, suddenly alarmed at the thought of our landlady, the irascible Mrs. Hudson, glimpsing the condition of the room.
Holmes turned up the mantle flame on the fixture behind him, illuminating the damage, which included a good bit of scorching to the settee and ceiling. We had been fortunate the whole place hadn’t ignited.
Lestrade frowned at the machine. “I’ll tell the servants down at Calibri’s shop to pick that thing up in the morning.”
Holmes simply nodded.
Lestrade reached for his hat.
“Leaving?” I asked.
“I need air.”
“I dare say we all do.” I turned to my friend. “Holmes?”
“Not for me. You go if you like. When you return, we can work at putting the room back together.”
“I’ll stay, then. Help you now.”
“No,” he said. “I need to be alone. You go. I’ll be here when you return.”
And so I followed Lestrade down to the street, stepping out into the haze of a nearby lamp.
“They tell me,” Lestrade said, “that London will be electrified soon.”
“Hard to believe.”
“It’s already the case in Berlin.”
“And in a few American cities,” I said. “Thanks to Edison and Tesla.”
He frowned. “It isn’t ours any more.”
“What isn’t?”
“The world.” He turned and started away, and as he walked I heard something behind me — a soft wailing, like the weeping of an angel.
I looked up, and there he was: Holmes once again projected as a shadow within the window. He had his violin in hand, the bow rising slowly with the sound. It was an original composition, one that had soothed me in the past. But that night, as I listened, I felt a dread for the things that we had let in to our home … and in to our minds forever.
The Quality of Mercy
William Meikle
I was late in reaching Waverley Station. I had left my lodgings in Melville Street with plenty of time to spare, but then I had to make several detours through Thistle Street and Rose Street to lose my stalker. I reached the bridge just as the train pulled in below me.
By the time I got to the platform most of the passengers had disembarked. A figure stood there, his back to me, smoking a briar pipe and humming a tune I almost recognised. There was something about the cropped hair and the ruddy neck that stirred a memory at the back of my mind. I had not seen the man since Afghanistan, but as soon as he turned it was as if the years between had never been.
“Dr. Watson I presume,” I said.
He laughed at the long unused witticism and pumped my hand.
“Well met Captain McKay,” he said. “You have scarcely changed a jot.”
He had a concerned look that gave the lie to that statement, but I had been seeing that look too often recently to pay it any mind. I bent to take his valise to avoid looking him in the eye and led him up the stairs.
Since my arrival steady drizzle had set in. Late afternoon sun glistened on the cobbles, spearing into my head and bringing on another headache. Across the street a shadow lurked in the doorway of Jenners, a shadow that moved away quickly round the corner even as I watched.
“Let us find a carriage,” I said. “This rain depresses me.”
Watson laughed loudly.
“Better this than Canderahah though. Do you remember…”
And at that he went off on a long reminiscence that in any other circumstances would have had me misty-eyed in nostalgia.
I barely heard a word of it. The shadow was back in Jenners’ doorway.
I took his valise in one hand, his arm in the other and half-dragged him to a carriage. I did not release my grip on either until we were rattling along Princes Street towards my lodgings.
“Dear God man,” Watson said quietly. “What has you so afeared?”
I put a finger to my lips.
“Not here. I have a story that needs telling. But I also have a thirst that needs quenching. Mayhap we can combine the two over dinner?”
I felt ashamed in asking him to pay the driver, but beggars cannot be choosers. Just as we turned towards my driveway I thought I saw the stalker again, under a lamp over by the church.
I hurried Watson inside.
While he completed his ablutions I set the poor repast I had managed to scrape together. I had cold meats, and fresh bread. It was not much, but the whisky had taken most of my Army pension, and these past few days oblivion had become more important than sustenance.
Watson was obviously straining at the leash to inquire as to my circumstances, but he maintained a constant chat of news of his circumstances in London over dinner. It was not until he pushed his plate away and I poured the first of many fingers of whisky that talk turned to the reason I had contacted him.
Watson got his pipe going while I gathered my thoughts.
“I promised you a tale,” I said. “But I warn you, it is more outlandish than any you will have heard afore.”
He smiled, but said nothing.
Before I had time to reconsider, I took a long draught from my glass and plunged headlong into the story.
“It began barely a month after Jeannie passed on,” I started, then had to stop almost immediately for more of the stiffener. That particular wound was still open, still raw.
“I was lost John. More alone than I have ever been. I clutched at anything that might give me succour. I went to church, but all I heard were empty promises. I visited a spiritualist in Leith but no amount of table-knocking or heavenly trumpets could convince me that Jeannie was there. The bottle called louder to me every night. I was near ready to fall into it completely when I met Colonel Menzies.”
Watson interrupted.
“Mad Tam?”
“The very same. Older now, but still as angry as ever. Or he was, at first. But over the next two weeks he seemed to take on a calm, almost contented demeanour. He too was a widower. We shared our grief, which he was handling with much steadier calm than I. Over a glass of port in the Officer’s Club he told me his secret. And he promised to share it. That very same night he introduced me to the Seekers of Light.”
Watson glowered over his pipe at me, but he said nothing, merely motioned with the pipe-stem for me to continue.
“Mad Tam swore to me that they were the one single thing that was keeping him alive, and that they were holders of secrets … secrets that allowed them to commune with the dead. After a fair degree of cajoling on his part, and a larger degree of liquor on mine, I agreed to accompany him to a meeting.
“At first I thought it was more a social gathering than anything else — like the evenings with our brothers on the square. Before that first meeting I met the Seekers. Among them were police officers, city councillors and even my bank manager. It was all so very convivial. Indeed, initially all was smiles and jollity, and I was made to feel special — wanted even. They made me promises that the spiritualists would not … promises that I would once more see my Jeannie.
“And in my grief, I believed them all.
“Over the course of the next month I visited their temple ever more frequently. As I have said, I believed their promises. That in itself was enough for me to endure the indignities I was put through, not the least of which involved the wearing of robes and headpieces that would have embarrassed even the young princess in Canderahah.
“Then came the night that was meant to make it all worthwhile. They washed and dressed me in an ante-chamber before leading me into a darkened room. I had prepared myself for theatrics, mayhap even a small amount of bloodletting.
“I had underestimated their resolve.
“The first thing I heard was the chant. Every word is engraved in my mind.
“Elohim do battle for him in the name of Tetragrammaton.
“Malachim protect him in the name of Jod He Vau He.
“Seraphim cleanse him in the name of Elvoih.
“Hajoth a Kadosh, cry, speak, roar, bellow.
“The chant gave way to a cacophony of drums and cymbals. The room went cold, colder even than a night under the stars in the Punjab. I felt goose-pimples run the length of my body. I was almost about to complain of my situation when I smelled it; the rot of the grave. We have both been too close to that often enough to mistake it for anything else.
“Something touched me in the dark. It felt both warm and cold simultaneously. A feather-light caress stroked my cheek, just for a second. I reached forward and felt cold flesh beneath my fingers. The taint of the grave grew stronger still. S
omeone breathed against my face, a whispered word, just one, but it rocked me to my core.
“Darling.”
“Before I really knew what had just happened the lights came on, costumes were shed and someone brought out the sherry. Once more it was like a Morningside tea party. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the evening. Save me.
“Whatever had been there in the room with me, it had known me. I was afeared down to my very bones that I knew who it had been. I made my excuses and left.
“I have not returned to that place. But since that night I have been filled with a dread that does not lift.”
Watson’s look was full of compassion. I hated to see it. He leaned over the table.
“You are merely afraid that you will never see your wife again.”
I took a long swig of the cratur before replying.
“No John,” I whispered. “I am afraid that I will.”
Watson was quiet for a long time. When he finally spoke, it was as Doctor Watson rather than my friend John.
“I can prescribe you a sleeping draught, if that is what is required?” he said.
I waved the whisky glass at him.
“I have the path to oblivion right here,” I said. “It is not enough.”
“I never took you for a nervous cove McKay,” he said.
I laughed, rather too loudly.
“My nerves are fine John. As is my mind. That which stalks me is all too real.”
I could see that he wasn’t convinced. I drained my glass and rose from the table.
“Come then Doctor. Let us see if your rationalism can survive this night.”
He protested at first, but soon saw that I was determined. He let me lead him out onto the road. I pointed to our right where the rear of St. Mary’s Cathedral loomed over the footpath.
“Look,” I said. “Under the nearest gas light. Do you see it?”
The lurker was there, a deeper dark in the dancing shadows. Watson had that puzzled, but interested, look on his face that I recognised from our days in service together. He made to walk towards the cathedral. I grabbed at his arm.
“John. Please. I’m not sure I’m ready for any confrontation.”
“Nonsense,” he said. He drew his service revolver from inside his waistcoat and started walking towards the Cathedral. I followed, much more slowly, and wishing now I had stayed firmly indoors with the whisky bottle.
Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes Page 7