Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Jeff Campbell

  “Now then,” I heard Watson say. “Come forward and explain yourself sir.”

  I saw him raise the pistol and aim.

  The shadow took on a degree of solidity. A hooded figure stood there, a cowl hanging over the face obscuring it completely.

  “It is a woman,” I heard Watson say, no more than a whisper. He lowered the pistol. “Madam. Please come forward. We mean you no harm.”

  The gaslight above the shadow flared, suddenly as bright as a newly lit candle, then just as quickly flickered and died. The cowled figure faded and dispersed like smoke in the wind. Once more I registered the unmistakeable taint of the grave.

  Watson had become still. He turned back to me, his face ashen and devoid of colour.

  “Where did she go?” he whispered. “Dear God McKay … where did she go!”

  I took him by the arm and led him back to my lodgings and the comfort of the bottle. It took three fingers to get some colour back to his cheeks, but it would take a while longer for him to fully recover his composure.

  “I think I can see now why you contacted me,” Watson said as I refilled his glass.

  “Actually John, it was your esteemed friend I really wanted.”

  Watson managed a smile.

  “A case such as this does not interest Holmes,” he said. “He said as much to me before I left London. He believes your grief has momentarily unhinged you.”

  “And do you believe that John? After what you have just seen.”

  “I do not quite know what I have just seen,” Watson said, downing the liquor in one gulp and reaching again for the bottle. “But on the morrow I intend for us to get to the bottom of this business once and for all.”

  He barely gave me time to break my fast on the morrow.

  “I will not have you suffer a single day more,” he said. His jaw was set, another look I well remembered, and one I knew would brook no argument. “Take me to this temple. Let us expose these leeches for the charlatans that they surely are.”

  The temple sat off the beaten track in a narrow close off the Grassmarket. Its walls, rough-hewn and damp, betrayed its age. Mad Tam had said he remembered it when it used to be an inn. Indeed the leaded windows that looked onto the close betrayed its origins. Unfortunately for our purposes, the occupants were keeping inn hours. This early in the day the interior lay dark and quiet. Watson pounded on the door with aggrieved frustration, but to no avail. We repaired to Jenners tea room for an early lunch.

  Over the next few hours we did what old soldiers do after an estrangement … we fought long forgotten battles, told tall tales, and set the world to rights. For the first time in many days I felt almost alive, almost ready to rejoin the living. The feeling lasted just as long as it took us to finish our repast and make our way to the exit.

  Whether by luck or bad judgement, we found ourselves at the very door where the shadow had lurked the previous evening. My bonhomie vanished in an instant to be replaced once again by the nameless dread that descended to lie heavy on my shoulders.

  I tried to walk it off, taking Watson on a tour of the High Street and Canongate. The mere act of recalling the history and associated tales once more kept my mind from dwelling on my situation, but I never regained the calm I had felt in the tea-room. By the time we arrived back at the close leading to the temple I felt the black mood on me, as heavy as ever.

  “Bear up man,” Watson said as we approached the building. “We shall have this whole affair closed before this night is out.”

  Dusk was falling, and in the dim shadows of the close we saw lamps were lit behind the leaded windows. Watson raised a fist to knock on the door, but it opened before he could complete the act.

  A thin, almost skeletal man ushered us inside.

  “Welcome back Captain McKay,” he said, although I had no memory of having seen the man before. “You will find them waiting for you through in the main chamber.”

  I already knew what waited there, but Watson drew in an astonished breath as we went through a heavy oak door.

  The black and white chequer-board floor stretched away from us, as long as a cricket pitch and as wide again. Like giant chess pieces, tall sculptures stood in a rough circle near the centre. Cream coloured, hewn and crafted from some ancient bone, they loomed over us, animal heads on human forms, milk-white eyes watching as we made our way to the clump of people at the far side of the hall.

  I only recognised one of them, William Leckie, a thin mousy accountant. The last time I was in the chamber he had seemed to be a leader of sorts. Indeed, he was the first to greet us, and the other people there deferred to him.

  “Mr. McKay. It is good to see you back,” he said. He took my hand with all the enthusiasm of a limp lettuce, and when he let go it was as if I’d just touched a slug. He turned to Watson.

  “Any friend of the Captain is welcome here,” he said. Watson took the proffered hand and gave it the old serviceman’s grip. Watson held on to his hand longer than necessary, just to make his point, and I had to suppress a smile as Leckie went pale and backed away.

  He had momentarily lost his composure, and he turned back to me to try to conceal the fact.

  “You left too soon the last time,” he said to me. “The invocation was not completed. I do hope there have been no ill-effects?”

  I was about to speak up when Watson kicked me on the ankle. It was another old Army trick, used by squaddies on parade to tell miscreants when it was best to stay quiet. I took the hint and smiled as well as I was able.

  “No ill-effects,” I said. “But I sense that Jeannie is closer now than ever.”

  Leckie smiled back, as sincere as a snake.

  “Well now that you have returned, we can begin the working proper. In fact, we can start this very evening if you are willing?”

  It was Watson who answered.

  “That is why we came,” he said. “I am greatly interested in your workings and would dearly love to see one performed.”

  Leckie’s smile dropped a notch.

  “We don’t usually allow newcomers into the temple on their first visit.”

  I turned, as if to leave.

  “In that case…”

  Leckie got agitated; he reached over and took my arm.

  “No, wait. I am sure we can work something out. We need to begin the working.”

  This time I saw it in his eyes. They reflected back something of what I felt myself, something that spoke of panic.

  I let him lead me to a table where he poured glasses of water for us.

  “No liquor before the invocation I’m afraid,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must ensure that the chamber is prepared.”

  Watson waited until the man had gone across the chequerboard before speaking.

  “That man is greatly afraid,” he said.

  “I noticed that,” I replied. “And I have been wondering why.”

  A hunched woman came and joined us at the table. She looked thin, almost painfully so, but her clothing told of a woman of some means.

  “It is good to see some new faces here,” she said in an accent that immediately spoke of Morningside elegance. She poured herself some water and moved off. Watson watched her intently for a few seconds then turned back to me.

  “I have a theory,” he said. “But I also have a favour to ask. I believe it is necessary for you to go through with this working … to play along with their mumbo-jumbo until we can gather more intelligence. Are you up for it?”

  I clapped his arm.

  “With you at my side John, I will endure whatever comes.”

  We did not have long to wait. Less than ten minutes later Leckie came towards us. I barely recognised the man. He had changed into a ceremonial robe of silk and satin topped off with a high red Phrygian cap. He looked just about as ridiculous as any man I’d ever seen but he fell solemn as he held out a hand to me.

  “Come,” he said. “It is time.”

  I couldn’t get my legs to move, but Watson pu
t a hand on my back and propelled me forward.

  Leckie led me once more into darkness. Once more I felt goose-pimples run the length of my body. I felt a cold hand in mine on my right side.

  “You may need this,” someone whispered.

  The handle of a knife nestled in my palm.

  “Watson?”

  “I’m here McKay,” came the reply … from my left.

  I had no time to wonder. A slow, distant drum started up, accompanied by a far-off flute. Leckie once more started to chant.

  “Mine is the garment of white sewn with gold, the flashing abbai that I wear. By my robe I invoke Thee!”

  The air went colder still, the chill coming up through the floor, rendering my feet and ankles to slabs of ice. It did not seem to slow Leckie.

  “By the Sword I invoke Thee! By The Voice of the Five. By The Voice of the Six. Eleven are our Voices.

  “Therefore I say unto thee: Come forth once more spirit, of the Firmament, of the Ether, of the Earth, of under the Earth; of dry land, of the Water, of Whirling Air, of Rushing Fire; be thou present here once and forever.”

  The odour stung in my nostrils and tickled at the back of my throat … the decay and sickly-sweet tang of the grave. Once more something soft brushed my cheek. I felt cold breath at my ear. A voice spoke, as if from a great distance.

  “I’m here.”

  Icy lips pressed against mine. The smell almost choked me, but there was something else there, something enticing. The lips parted and a cold tongue like a piece of wet stone ran quickly over my teeth, then was gone.

  “Jeannie?”

  But it could not be my love. Had I not awoken to find her, cold and still, beside me? Had I not kissed her cheek, one last time, before they took her from the house? Had I not stood over the grave as they lowered her in?

  If wishes could come true, then she would be here. But I had lost any faith in the goodly nature of the world many years ago on the killing fields in India.

  Watson was right. It could not be her.

  I did not pause. I struck with the knife. It hit soft, yielding flesh and I felt something else, something like cloth that tore like paper.

  At the same moment a voice shouted.

  “Get him out of here Watson. Get him out of here now.”

  Someone tugged at my arm. Screams and squeals rent the darkness. A running body ran into me and fell aside. I do believe I may have stood heavily on someone’s face, but seconds later I was out in the chequer-board hall.

  It was Watson who had me by the arm. He pulled me bodily towards the main doorway.

  “Come man,” he said. “It is time to beat a retreat.”

  Together we ran out into the night.

  It was full dark on the streets outside and a thick fog hung over the Old Town like a shroud. Watson dragged me behind him as if I was a heavy intractable valise.

  “I think we can stop John,” I said. “We are well clear.”

  I still had the knife in my hand. I put it away in my inside pocket. As I turned back towards Watson a figure loomed out of the fog. I reached towards the knife, but Watson stayed my hand.

  The thin woman from the temple walked towards us, straightening and removing her coat to show a shirt and black trousers rolled up to the knees beneath. She reversed the coat and put it on. It now looked like a standard man’s frock-coat. She, or should I say he, pulled a wig from his head, rolled down the trousers and took a pair of shoes from the coat pockets, bending to put them on. When he rose, he looked like a gentleman out for a stroll. Once he had wiped a film of make-up from his face the transformation was complete.

  Watson smiled.

  “Captain McKay, may I introduce you to Sherlock Holmes?”

  The man smiled back thinly.

  “Well met Captain McKay. Let us proceed with haste to your lodgings. I am interested to see what manner of thing you managed to cut with my knife.”

  Half an hour later we were settled in front of the fire. The whisky bottle did the rounds between us. I retrieved the knife from my pocket and passed it to the man. Holmes studied the blade while I studied him.

  At first glance he might be taken for an academic, perhaps a mathematician or chemist. He hunched over the blade, deep in concentration. But when he looked up at Watson, you could see the enthusiasm dancing in his eyes. And more than that, there was excitement there, and more than a hint of danger. Whereas one could look at Watson and immediately know he had been a military man, there was no conceivable way to tell what life had thrown at Holmes. He reminded me of nothing more than a cat … and one that was only barely trained at that.

  “I am sorry for the earlier deceit,” he said to me. “But I had to see for myself the lay of the land. Tell me Mr. McKay, how much money have they taken from you?”

  It was Watson who saw my quizzical expression.

  “I don’t believe they have taken any, Holmes.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  “There has never been any mention of payment.”

  Holmes looked puzzled.

  “But surely that can be the only possible reason for such an elaborate ruse as this.”

  “A ruse?” Watson said.

  Holmes nodded. He took out a cigarette case and lit up a thin cheroot.

  “And a well done ruse at that. This material on the knife is genuine enough. It is human flesh, dead for several months. Alongside that we have several threads of material that can only come from an undertaker’s shroud. They have gone to great lengths to maintain the illusion.”

  “Illusion?” I said. I swallowed a large gulp of whisky and let its heat numb me. “That which follows me is no illusion.”

  Holmes looked straight at me.

  “Smoke and mirrors, no more,” he said and exhaled a puff of dark vapour that hung in the air until he dispelled it with a wave of his hand. “Smoke and mirrors.”

  He puffed on the cheroot for a while longer before speaking again.

  “They have never asked for anything from you? You are sure?”

  I lit up a pipe.

  “There is nothing to be had. I rent these lodgings, which takes near half of what little pension I have. The rest goes on bread, tobacco and whisky. And most days I forego the bread.”

  Watson tutted at that, but I was in no mood for a doctor’s condescension. I kept going.

  “I brought no jewels out of India, I did not marry a princess, and there are no rich ancestors around to leave me a previously unforeseen legacy. For all I know the people we met tonight are genuinely concerned with my well-being.”

  Holmes let out a loud harumph at that.

  “And what say you Watson? What is your professional opinion of what you have seen?”

  Watson thought deeply before replying.

  “You know me to be a rationalist Holmes,” he said. “But the thing I saw under the gaslight last night was more than a mere trick. I fear I will have to adjust my view of the way of the world.”

  Holmes laughed loudly.

  “Stuff and nonsense and tales to frighten children. There is a conspiracy here. A conspiracy to blind and obscure our intelligence with the merest fancy.”

  He stood quickly.

  “Well I will not have it,” he said. “I will return to the scene and show you the error of your ways. Come.”

  He made for the door. I stayed in my seat and poured another whisky.

  “The only thing I seek is oblivion,” I said. “An escape from that which haunts me. Much as I desire to see my Jeannie again, I do not think I can face that chamber. If that thing they have called up is indeed my dearest, then I fear for my sanity should I see it at close quarters.”

  Holmes strode over and stared deep in my eyes.

  “Oblivion is not the answer,” he said softly. There was such sincerity in his demeanour that I could do nought but believe him. He took my hand and lifted me from the seat. I had one longing look back at the whisky before he and Watson dragged me back out into the foggy Edinburgh nigh
t.

  When we arrived once more at the close leading to the temple it was immediately obvious that all present had fled the scene. The old inn lay in darkness and the door was securely locked.

  I was already regretting leaving the warmth of my lodgings. The chill of the night also made me wish I’d taken more of the cratur before venturing outside.

  Watson and Holmes had no such qualms. Watson already had his service pistol drawn while Holmes worked at the door lock with a thin length of metal. The sound of the lock clicking open was like a gunshot in the enclosed close. I was ushered into the dark chamber.

  It took several seconds before my eyes adjusted. There was just enough light to see the chequer-board floor. The sculptures loomed over us, the dark making them even larger, even more menacing. Holmes led me quickly across the floor to the door of the dark chamber from which I’d so recently been dragged.

  “Remember,” he said, his whispers echoing around us. “Anything that happens in there is no more than a very well done illusion. I will learn its secret before this night is out. Ready, Watson?”

  “Ready”

  Holmes tried the heavy door that led to the evocation chamber. The handle turned easily in his hand and the door fell open.

  Dim light showed through. We walked inside.

  The room was smaller than I had imagined, being little more than ten feet square. Long thick drapes had been drawn back, letting in some gaslight from the street outside.

  A stone column some four feet high sat in the dead centre of the room. On the far side of it stood a hooded figure.

  My heart leapt.

  “Jeannie?” I whispered.

  The figure let the hood drop back. Leckie the accountant stood there.

  “I’m afraid not Mr. McKay. You ran off earlier just as she was ready to make an appearance. I am beginning to wonder whether you really want to see her at all.”

  Holmes stepped forward.

  “Let’s have no more of this mummery,” he said. “You will cease from bothering this man.”

  Leckie laughed.

  “Mummery? Is that what you think is going on here?”