Holmes laid his hand upon my shoulder, a display of affection so rare for my friend that it sent a shiver down my spine.
“I would greatly value your assistance, my friend,” he said. “And, I think an absence from these unhappy memories would do you a world of good.”
The plot proved less complex and more time-consuming than Mycroft had led us to believe. Holmes quickly discovered the heart of the matter and laid a trap that, in time, would bring the conspirators to ground. Mycroft had insisted Holmes remain in Canada until the matter was resolved so we found ourselves in the Canadian capital with little to do but wait.
After a few days of cooling our heels, I could see that my friend was growing increasingly restless. It would be at least three weeks before the next steps could be taken so I proposed that we see more of the country. A journey westward on the recently completed Canadian Pacific Railway would at least have the novelty of changing scenery and we were bound to meet interesting characters traveling to the expanding frontier.
I, of course, had no way of knowing how endlessly monotonous the landscape of Canada could be or how dull our fellow passengers. It was with some relief that, after three days of unchanging vistas of rocks, trees and water and long dull conversations about weather and farm implements, our journey was suddenly brought to a halt by a washed out bridge.
The town of Rat Portage was an ill-favoured collection of rough buildings scattered along the shores of a vast blue lake, whose waters sparkled in the light of the setting sun. In a little more than thirty years, the town had grown from a simple Hudson’s Bay trading post to a centre of gold mining and lumbering. It now possessed all the vile entertainments that appeal to that class of men. Saloons and hotels offering ‘feminine’ companionship lined the main street and numerous officers of the law were stationed along the boardwalk in anticipation of trouble to come. Avoiding the blandishments of the fancier hotels along the main street, we sought out a rooming house the conductor had recommended as being ‘suitable for professional gentlemen’.
The establishment in question was considerably more genteel in appearance than its neighbours, with freshly painted clapboard siding, a white picket fence and even the beginnings of a rose garden. The walk was freshly swept and the porch and facing windows, hung with lace curtains, in a state of immaculate cleanliness. One curtain was pulled back and, though the interior was fairly dim, I could see a bookshelf and several comfortable chairs situated around a fireplace.
I almost expected Mrs. Hudson to greet us at the door. Instead, we were kept waiting for several minutes. I was about to knock once more on the heavy wooden door, when it suddenly opened. A short but heavy-set man of perhaps thirty years stood framed in the doorway. He was dressed in coarse woolen pants and a leather jacket that smelled faintly of smoke. He wore his dark hair long and in braids and I might have mistaken him for one of the native Indians we had seen lingering near the train station if it were not for the remarkable paleness of his skin and his piercing blue eyes. He held a short wooden truncheon in his right hand, while his left rested on the door; as though to slam it should trouble arise.
“What can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked, in the flat nasal twang I had come to think of as a Canadian accent.
“We had hoped to find rooms for a few nights while the train bridge is being repaired.”
“I’m afraid we’re full up.” The man began to swing the door closed.
“Don’t be absurd, Jacobson, your house is empty, as you prefer it,” said Holmes. “After the events of last night, you have every reason to be concerned but Watson and I are no danger to either you or your good wife. In fact, we may be of some assistance with your troubles.”
“I heard the train arrive not more than an hour ago. What could you possibly know of me or my troubles?”
“Nothing, of course, other than your name and the fact you are an agent for the Hudson’s Bay Company, recently returned from an extensive trip into the surrounding countryside. A few months ago, you married a woman of Scottish origin, newly arrived from London, who is remarkably tolerant of your habits, formed in the three or four years since your arrival here, and who has demonstrated considerable fortitude. An animal, perhaps a family pet, was killed, not more than a week ago and its remains left on this very porch. You fear it is somehow connected to your work and to a bloody murder that occurred not three blocks away just last night.”
I was accustomed to my friend’s powers of observation but even I was astounded at this speech. Jacobson’s mouth opened and then shut. He glanced over his shoulder. A woman appeared out of the shadows.
“You may as well let him in, Timmy, he seems to know all about us,” she said, her Scots origins clear in her voice. “Though I dinnae ken how it is so.”
Jacobson looked dubious but stepped aside. Holmes and I entered and were ushered in by the woman, who introduced herself as Alice, into the formal sitting room.
“I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend Doctor John Watson.”
Alice Jacobson suddenly smiled.
“Sherlock Holmes the detective?” she asked. “Oh, Timmy, mayhap help has arrived when least expected.”
“I thought you might recognize my name,” said Holmes.
“Holmes, really…” I began.
“It is quite simple, Watson. You know my methods.”
I shrugged and waited for him to elaborate.
“That his name is Jacobson and that he is dubious of the merits of running a respectable boarding house in a town like this is revealed by the rather small sign in the window, advertising the premises. Covered in lace, it is almost invisible were you not already looking for it. The dark upper windows at twilight suggest he has no guests at present.
“That he is the Hudson’s Bay agent is clear from his appearance, the long hair and buckskin jacket that gain him access to the native tribes with whom he trades, as well as the distinctive blanket that is draped across one of the chairs in the sitting room. His recent return from the bush is evident from his pale skin, unmarked by the sun. His skin has been coated in some sort of animal grease, the odour of which is still detectable despite his recent bath. The natives use bear fat to ward off the hordes of flies that have plagued us since our arrival in this dismal land.”
“But the origins and character of his wife?” I asked. “You had not even set eyes upon the lady before describing her?”
“That the marriage was recent was obvious from the rose garden, which is clearly in its first season, and by the fresh coat of paint on the house and fence. The woman’s touch is obvious. That she is Scottish is evident by the silver clasps, in the shape of a thistle, that bind Jacobson’s hair, which remains long, demonstrating her tolerance. Her sojourn in London, as well as her familiarity with my name? Note the magazines on the hall table. A copy of the The Strand from last year is on the top of the pile.”
“Not so remarkable now that you’ve explained it,” grumbled Jacobson.
“So I have been told,” said Holmes.
“But how did you know about our dog?” asked Alice. “And our fears?”
“You are undoubtedly a careful housekeeper — the state of these rooms testify to that — but the removal of blood, especially that of a loved pet, is a difficult thing. There were unmistakable traces, now turned brown from some days’ exposure to the sun, on the edges of your porch. A recently planted marker in the rose garden suggested a family pet.
“Your current worries are more troubling. I have no doubt the death of your pet is but one of many such occurrences that have plagued the town in the last few weeks. A series of animal slaughters that culminated in the grisly discovery of a human victim only last night.”
Alice Jacobson put her hand to mouth and her already fair skin paled. I thought she might faint and I took a step toward her, ready to assist. She waved me away and gestured to her husband.
“Tell him everything, Tim. Everything.”
“It began during the winter with mutilati
ons of cows and horses on some of the new farms to the east of the town. No one thought much of it at first — petty feuds or childish pranks — but each time the wounds were deeper. The first animal, a horse, was killed at the beginning of May. It was a brutal thing. The creature was found draped across a beam in the barn, three great cuts across its belly so its entrails hung down like a curtain of blood. There was more but I hesitate to describe it.” Jacobson looked over at his wife, now perched on the edge of one of the chairs, her hands folded and eyes downcast.
“It was the first such killing but not the last, I take it,” said Holmes. He had sprawled in another of the large chairs, his eyes half-closed and his fingers steepled.
“There have been a dozen more,” said Jacobson.
“Each one has been closer to town?” asked Holmes.
Jacobson nodded. “A few days ago our own dog was found on the next street, gutted in the same horrible way.”
Holmes sat up, his eyes suddenly alert. “The animal was not killed on your own property.”
“No,” said Alice. “King was an escape artist. We keep him penned in the back to keep him from fighting but he always seems to find a way out of his cage.”
“His wandering days are over now,” said Jacobson, a trifle cruelly. “The dog was brought back to us by one of the local braves. He laid it on the porch before I could stop him. Left a terrible mess as you surmised.”
“Did he know what had killed the beast?” asked Holmes.
“He said it was a Windigo,” said Jacobson, flushing slightly. “He seemed almost apologetic.”
“Some kind of bear?” I asked.
“It’s an Ojibwa legend,” said Jacobson. “A vengeful spirit that kills without warning and whose hunger for death can never be sated. It never eats what it kills, unless…” He hesitated, though out of deference for his wife or from raw fear, I couldn’t tell.
“Go on, man,” said Holmes, impatiently.
“Unless its victim is human.”
When we had retired to our rooms, I asked Holmes how he knew there had been a murder. The conductor had mentioned nothing of the crime when we departed the station.
“I suspect it is not widely known,” said Holmes. “Jacobson knew of it because of his position and his connections to the local tribesmen. They are obviously a superstitious people and might react unpredictably if they thought their local gods were involved. You must have noted the large number of police on the main road.”
“I assumed it was in anticipation of riotous behavior among the tradesmen of the town.”
“A reasonable deduction, Watson,” said Holmes, “but wrong nonetheless. The saloon doors were all closed — though the establishments were open. And the ladies advertising the hotels’ services were confined to the first floor balconies rather than the boardwalks. I noted that one alley way had been blocked off and was secured by two burly officers. By the nervousness of their demeanor and their sickly complexion, I deduced that they were guarding a particularly grisly crime scene.”
“Are you suggesting the victim was one of the … ladies?” Although I was well aware of their occupation, I have always been hesitant to name it. A woman, no matter how fallen, is always a lady to me.
“If one of their own number had fallen, they would have been aware of it and been less enthusiastic in their calls. The circumstances suggested that the authorities had asked those establishments to keep their patrons off the streets as much as possible. The victim was a man and a prominent one at that. It is now time we discovered who. And, Watson,” added Holmes, “I suggest you bring your service revolver.”
Even in the far-flung reaches of Canada, the police were aware of Holmes’ accomplishments although the Northwest Mounted Police Staff Sergeant in charge of the investigation, a bluff Canadian named Barker, was reluctant to allow us to enter the alley.
“With all due respect,” he said, “I’d prefer to wait until the inspector arrives from Winnipeg. Though with the train bridge being out, that may be some time.”
Barker was a big man, clearly too fond of the mess hall. His red serge jacket was stretched tight across his midriff and his face was florid and sweating in the warmth of the evening air.
Holmes sighed and produced the letter that Mycroft had provided to aid with his investigations in Ottawa. It galled Holmes to have to rely on his brother’s authority rather than his own reputation but the matter at hand was too serious to allow pride to stand in the way. Barker examined the letter for a few minutes before handing it back to Holmes.
“Be my guest,” he said, grudgingly, “but be warned. It’s a gruesome sight.”
Borrowing a lantern from one the guards, Holmes and I entered the alley. The stench was nearly overwhelming and I was forced to place a handkerchief over my nose to keep from gagging. Holmes, as was often the case when he was deeply engaged in an investigation, seemed impervious to the smell and indeed the sight that greeted us.
If it had not been for my experience as a medical officer in Afghanistan, I might well have fled the scene. The man, or what was left of him, had been hung from a spike that protruded from one wall of the alley, his naked body impaled on the rusting metal.
Whether this had been the cause of death — for the spike penetrated his back below the left shoulder blade and must surely have pierced his heart — was difficult to tell, so severe were the other wounds upon his body. His stomach had been slashed as if by three great claws and his intestines had been draped around his neck and head so his face was hidden from view. His right leg had been severed at the hip and appeared to be missing. His genitals and his left arm below the elbow were also gone.
Holmes gestured for me to remain in the alley’s mouth while he took the lantern and searched it from one end to the other. When he was satisfied, he returned to the corpse and used his cane to push aside the entrails. The face was that of a man of about forty years now frozen in a look of horror, although it was otherwise unmarked.
“Who would do a thing like that, Doctor?” asked Barker who had joined me at the mouth of the alley.
I shuddered but did not reply. Surely this was the work of a madman, I thought, or some monster out of myth.
“Who is he?” asked Holmes.
“Jonathon Maguire, City councilor and the local land developer. We’re keeping the details under wraps until we can complete our investigation.”
“Despite the name, not a Catholic,” said Holmes, then added in response to Barker’s quizzical stare, “The Masonic ring on his right hand. What else can you tell me about him?”
“A widower. His wife died in childbirth ten years ago and he never remarried. Too wrapped up in his business dealings for that sort of thing. He had a house here in town but he spent most of his days clearing land on the east side of town.”
“I thought most of the settlers were headed farther west,” I said.
“They are,” said Barker, “but there are plenty of jobs here in the mines and the mills and some families decide to stay rather than take their chances farther west. Maguire offers them the chance to have the best of both worlds. A plot of land to grow a few vegetables and raise a few cattle while they earn a steady wage in town.”
“A number of those cattle, and horses, too, suffered a similar fate to Maguire,” said Holmes.
“Aye,” said Barker, looking uncomfortable. “I wish I’d paid a little more attention to that when it first started. Maguire’s horse was the first to be killed.”
“I thought that might be the case,” said Holmes. “Tell me, do you have much trouble keeping the peace with the natives of the area?”
“The Indians, you mean? No, not usually, except when some bootlegger runs some whiskey to them. One of them got shot last year but we never found who did it. They mostly keep to themselves on the reserve, southeast of town. It was established when they took treaty about twenty years ago. They are free to hunt and fish anywhere they like as long as they don’t interfere with mining or lumbering. Of course
, there are always troublemakers in any bunch, complainers.”
I remembered the complaints of the local tribes from my time in Afghanistan. At the time, I thought of them as nothing but ungrateful troublemakers. With the advantage of hindsight, I was no longer so sure.
“Can you provide me with a list of all the men whose animals were killed?” asked Holmes. “And their connections to the recent land development Maguire was promoting?”
“I’ll do what I can,” said Barker. “But I can tell you right now that Mayor LeBlanc had his two prize bulldogs butchered right in his yard. And he was Maguire’s business partner. I’ll have to go back to the station house to see who else reported losses.”
“Watson, would you go with Sergeant Barker to retrieve his list? I need to speak to Jacobson and then make some inquiries at the local Masonic Lodge. I will meet you there in half an hour.”
Holmes was already standing outside the Russell House hotel, where the lodge held its meetings, when I arrived. He was pacing impatiently while puffing furiously on his pipe. Smoke wreathed around his head in the still night air. He scanned the list Barker had provided.
“Come, Watson, we have not a moment to lose. I fear the Mayor’s life is in grave danger.”
Holmes set a brisk pace, which despite the nagging pull of my old wound, I was able to match. LeBlanc’s house was only a few blocks away but before we could reach it, our pace was quickened by a blood-curdling cry, the like of which I never hope to hear again.
The house was a broad three-storey affair with high gables above a wide verandah. No lights shone from its windows and, were it not for the cry that had emanated from deep within it, I might have thought it abandoned. We mounted the steps two at a time and Holmes pounded on the heavy front door with the butt of his cane.
There was no response and Holmes stepped to one of the large windows that flanked the entrance. Swinging his cane like a club he shattered the glass and pushed his way inside, only to emerge moments later, gasping for breath.
Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes Page 14