“Cover your nose, Watson,” he said, as he smashed out the other window. “There’s devilry afoot.”
A faint trail of grey smoke drifted from the gaping hole where the first window had stood. Its odour was heavy, soporific, like opium but sharper, more acrid. Covering my nose with my handkerchief, I stepped through into the sitting room. A woman, the mayor’s wife by her dress, was slumped on a settee while another, likely the maid, had collapsed on the floor. A quick check revealed both women were unconscious but otherwise unharmed.
“The cry came from the rear of the house,” said Holmes. “Draw your gun, Watson.”
We raced through the darkened hallways to the rear of the house and burst into a large kitchen. The room was lit by a single candle, the flickering flame casting grotesque shadows on the walls and ceiling. The smell of blood was overwhelming.
Leblanc’s naked body — it could be no other — was hanging from a central light fixture. Like Maguire, his belly had been slashed open. Gore still dripped from the three wide cuts and steam rose from the wounds. His left leg had been severed but we did not have to look far to find it. Silhouetted against the open rear window was a creature out of nightmare, the bloody stump grasped in one of its huge three-taloned claws.
It was more than seven feet tall, but thin as a starving man, all bone and sinew and hanging tatters of leathery skin. Its head was misshapen and seemed, in the dim red glow of the candle, all mouth and teeth. Clouts of stringy hair and black feathers stuck out at all angles from its flesh and a foul carrion odour oozed from its pores.
I fired two shots into the center of its narrow chest but the creature was unaffected. It dropped the bloody leg and seemed to fold itself almost in half. Turning, it leapt through the open window and disappeared into the darkness of the yard beyond. By the time we had reached the sill, the creature had vanished into the night.
“A fearsome creature, Watson,” said Holmes, “but not a courageous one.”
Finding a lantern, Holmes went immediately to the window and examined the ground below it. He then gave the body a cursory examination, paying particular attention to the man’s hands.
“As I suspected,” he said. “This plot runs deep, Watson, and will require all our wits and the authority of Mycroft’s letter to resolve. I need to send a telegram and receive an answer. Then we will join Jacobson for a midnight excursion on the lake.”
The waters were smooth and dark and cold as we paddled Jacobson’s freighter canoe away from shore toward a dark low island. The Hudson’s Bay factor and I supplied the muscle as Holmes perched in the bow of the canoe, peering into the darkness. Silence hung over the lake like a blanket, broken only by the slush of our paddles in the water, the faint buzz of the ever-present insects and the occasional cry of a night bird.
As we reached the island shore the half-moon rose over the horizon, splashing pearly light upon the rocks and trees. A hideous form appeared before us and I must admit I cried out in shock and horror before realizing it was nothing more than a rocky outcrop, whose odd shape gave the initial impression of a monstrous face.
“Spirit rocks,” said Jacobson. “Where the Windigo lives, according to the Ojibwa.”
“When it is not haunting the streets of Rat Portage,” added Holmes.
Jacobson pulled the canoe into a small cove and beached it on the gravel shore. Holmes leapt from the boat and leaned forward as if sniffing the air like some great bloodhound. I had seldom seen him so excited and I knew the solution to this baffling series of events was near to hand.
“Are you sure he will come?” asked Holmes.
“The Chief couldn’t guarantee it but he said he would do everything in his power to persuade him. That counts for something in my books,” replied Jacobson.
“But who are we waiting for?” I asked.
A night bird cried again, close at hand. Holmes held up his hand.
“Quietly now, Watson,” whispered Holmes. “There is danger here. Make no sudden moves but be prepared to act at my word.”
There was a faint rustling in the bushes and then a figure stepped into the moonlight. He was tall, made taller by the great headdress of feathers that crowned him and trailed down his back, with broad shoulders and clean muscular limbs. His face was stern and sharp-featured, as if it had been carved from wood. When he spoke, his voice was low and soft and sounded of soft consonants, sibilants and sighs. Jacobson answered in the same tongue and the two men bowed to each other.
“He is willing to hear your words, but he makes no promises,” said Jacobson.
“You are the one who called the Windigo,” said Holmes pausing for Jacobson to translate. The shaman nodded his assent.
A sudden chill ran down my spine and it took all my resolve not to glance around at the surrounding bush. The leaves sighed and the branches rubbed together like the sound of claws scrapping across leather, yet I felt no touch of wind on my face. A faint acrid odour seeped upward from the very earth and I felt my limbs grow heavy. Yet Holmes seemed unmoved.
“Your ancestors have been disturbed by the settlers to the east and the Windigo has been called to avenge them.”
Again the shaman nodded assent.
“There were promises made,” said the shaman in his own language.
“I can vouch for that,” said Jacobson. “The treaty promised to protect burial grounds and sacred sites. When the Bay began to release land sixteen years ago, there was an area that was supposed to be exempt from settlement. It appears someone, my predecessor, perhaps, conveniently forgot that.”
“They’ve paid for their convenience,” said Holmes. Turning back to the shaman, he said. “I have a letter authorizing me to take back the burial ground and transfer it to your people for all time. For as long as the grass grows and the rivers flow. The Queen herself will approve it.”
The shaman stared at Holmes for a long moment as if weighing his character in the balance. In the deep of the woods, a great body moved and a voice moaned softly. The shaman held up his hand, palm outward, and the sounds stopped.
“Perhaps some white men,” he said, “can tell the truth. Time will tell. The Windigo will return to the rocks and the waters. Until he is needed again.”
The man turned and walked with great dignity back into the bush.
As we paddled back across the river, Holmes explained.
“Ownership of this area had been in dispute between Ontario and Manitoba for some years. Whenever there is a gap in the law, unscrupulous men will enter into it. The Masonic Lodge, a generally fraternal and benevolent, if overly secretive, organization, acted as a perfect cover for them to plot in private. I knew it was not a true lodge when I discovered a Masonic ring on Leblanc’s hand. While it is conceivable that the Irish Maguire might not be a Catholic, a French-Canadian Protestant is a rare bird indeed. They along with the Indian Agent, who has long since departed the area with his bribe money in hand, conspired to cheat the local Indians. When they protested, one of them was shot.”
“So they responded by raising the Windigo to wreak their vengeance on the killers,” I said.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Watson,” said Holmes. “There are no such thing as spirits and monsters. The Ojibwa are skilled warriors and hunters. It was undoubtedly one of their number, perhaps the shaman himself, who carried out the killings. They started with animals as a form of warning and then escalated to Maguire and LeBlanc. A human killer, no doubt. I spotted the soft footprints in the clay beneath the window, a most material spirit indeed.”
“But we saw…?”
“A man in an elaborate costume, from the towering head piece right down to the clawed moccasins on his feet,” said Holmes. “Nothing more.”
“Then it was murder, Holmes. Surely we should…”
“There is higher law involved, Watson. The honour of the Crown was jeopardized by these men. Surely that is tantamount to treason.”
Holmes was right. An injustice had occurred that we had, at least in part, right
ed. Perhaps my grief at the loss of Mary had made we wish there to be some power beyond this material world. The sorrow of these abused people had resonated with that in my own heart. I gazed back at the receding island. The shaman stood on the shore watching our departure. Looming over him, a shambling creature also watched, its great teeth and claws glowing in the pale moonlight.
Before I could point them out to Holmes, they had disappeared into the darkness.
Celeste
Neil Jackson
Scotland 1895.
The blue March sky cast almost no reflection on the still calm of Loch Muick as the waters sparkled and shimmered in the sunlight. Across the expanse, the sound of distant gulls mingled with the squeaky cries of the nesting whinchats and the gentle chugging of a small motor that powered the fishing-smack of the estate manager, as it bobbed gently on the slight swell toward the jetty.
Three well-dressed gentlemen stood on one of the banks as another stood looking on; watching the three and the surrounding area for anything untoward.
A large fishing rod was drawn back and then whipped forward at pace.
‘Plip.’
A small, orange coloured float disturbed the surface.
“A fine cast, Your Royal Highness.”
“You can dispense with the formality, Dr. Watson. George will be fine. We are well out of earshot of the staff … and my parents.”
Watson tried his best to appear unflustered but struggled to find a suitable retort.
“Thank you … Your … sir.”
“George.”
“George … yes.”
Prince George smiled at the man’s mild discomfort. It was not the first time that this almost juvenile prank had been used, and away from the prying eyes of his father’s staff, not the last. He turned toward the one among them who remained silent, with eyes fixed on the float, Sherlock Holmes.
“Mr. Holmes, is this to your liking?”
“The view is something to behold. The gentle sounds of the water breaking on the bank and the wind murmuring through the tall reeds are things to be wondered at and grateful for.”
“Very poetic, but I sense that fishing is not a pastime of yours. I cannot tempt you one last time to join me?”
“I saw a bind of salmon being brought in by one of your staff, early this morning. Fish like these are too beautiful to be caught only once and served with a slice of lemon and vegetable of the day.”
“I understand your feeling, but we are the only ones here and there are no thronging masses to drain the loch of your beautiful fish.”
“For now, sir … for now.”
Watson gave a cough to indicate his disapproval. It did not go unnoticed by Prince George who gave another wry smile.
“As you mention food, I noticed that you did not touch your breakfast.”
“Holmes doesn’t eat when he needs to concentrate. Total abstinence. Just iron will to keep him going. Foolish if you ask me.”
“Is this true, Holmes?”
“In part. There are times when one is not hungry and this morning was one of those times. If you could alert your kitchen staff as to no slight.”
“Like you, Mr. Holmes, I’m a watcher of people. In the role that my life has dictated, one has to be. To be aware of the nuances of many peoples and of their customs.”
Prince George handed his rod to Watson.
“Dr. Watson. Would you be so kind? I wish to share something with Mr. Holmes.”
“What, but I…”
Watson was not given any time to refuse or question his royal host.
“My footman, Newman, will attend you, should you need anything,” The prince raised his head toward the large gentleman with the stern look standing about twenty yards away. A reciprocal nod was returned by the former soldier, who was now more bodyguard than footman. Fetching and carrying were more for the serving staff, not for one whose life was now dedicated to protecting an heir to the throne. “Newman is a skilled angler … so he is your man.”
“Thank you … sir.” The look on the physician’s face did not hide his mild annoyance at being kept away from the conversation.
“Mr. Holmes, let us stroll.”
The world’s greatest detective and an heir to the throne, the distinguished and the eminent, walked within the grounds of Balmoral, both wearing the garb of thought in their expressions but only one carried with him a mystery everlastingly impenetrable … until now.
“What I’m about to tell you requires your utmost discretion, above and beyond your normal level of professionalism, Mr. Holmes … of course I know you will have to inform the good doctor. There is no record or log of what I’m about to relate and I hope that it can help you in uncovering the truth to a long held mystery.”
“You know my credentials, sir … and I am not one who desires the limelight … just answers to questions.”
“There is a small fishing port on the west coast, Mallaig. I want you to travel there and examine something for me.”
“Examine?”
“A brigantine. A half-brig to be correct.”
“And what is it that you want examined? I am a seasoned traveller, Your Highness … but my knowledge of ships, save for their ability to transport goods and people, is limited. But I do know that to keep a brigantine, 100 feet in length, is not something that can be kept quiet on any level.”
The Prince’s tone changed. More thoughtful. Fearful.
“When I was a lieutenant serving on the Dreadnought, I was the target of many japes and tomfoolery based on an incident that occurred on July 11th, 1881 when I was assigned to the Bacchante. Early that morning, a ship appeared off the port bow, where the Officer-of-the-Watch, myself and a number of other able seamen all saw it. A ship that glowed with a strange, red light. A mist shrouded its entire being, yet no weather conditions that would contribute to the formation of a fog were in evidence.”
“The Flying Dutchman.” Holmes interjected.
“The same. You’re not surprised?”
“As you say, your sighting is a matter of record. The Tourmaline and Cleopatra that sailed to your starboard, if I recall the incident correctly, also logged the sighting.”
“Very good, Holmes. If only it was that incident that needed investigation, you would be the right man for that task. No, the task I would like you to consider, concerns a much darker piece of naval mystique.”
“I’m intrigued to say the least. The lore surrounding the ‘Dutchman’, I feel is based on fable more than anything physical.”
“This one is very physical. The Celeste.”
The name was enough to stop Holmes in his tracks. Instinctively he reached out to the Royal Heir’s forearm.
“You have the Mary Celeste?”
“I see the name has piqued your interest.”
Both men looked at Holmes’ hand. Holmes loosed his grip.
“My apologies.”
“We can’t put you in the Tower for having passion and an inquiring mind, Mr. Holmes.”
The two men continued their walk. Holmes’ mind now began to formulate a path of questioning, as he recalled every detail that his almost photographic memory could muster.
“I was led to believe that she had been sunk off the island of Haiti by her last owner, one G. C. Parker, if I recall my details correctly.”
“Mr. Parker was arrested and sent to prison to await his trial. But ‘died’ before he could come to court.”
“But the brigantine was set alight and sunk as part of the fraud. How can you be sure that you have the Celeste?”
“Because it was a group of my own people that arranged for a sleight of hand.”
“A fraud of your own, so to speak?”
“I prefer to call it ‘a wilful campaign of misinformation.’ The insurance companies were covered financially. The legal documents filed to withstand any and all scrutiny.”
“The burning wreck?”
“Mr. Holmes, a brigantine is easy to come by. Many owners are willi
ng to scupper a boat with only few months left of its life and no commercial value.”
“G. C. Parker?”
“Alive and well. A new identity … and a small business to keep him occupied. But he is being watched closely.
The Marie Celeste?
“I had a hand-picked group of men, trustworthy fellows all, deliver her to her present resting place. Took them the best part of two months.”
“Two months? Why such a long time?”
“We had to tow her … no one would crew her. Superstition runs rife among mariners, a fact of which I am sure you are aware.”
“But the question remains. What is it that you need from the solving of this mystery?”
“An explanation! September 21st, 1883. I was on the bridge of the HMS Alexandra with the Captain and First Mate. A midshipman, wet behind the ears but learning fast — just about to be promoted to sub-lieutenant. My reports were always regarded as good reading by my superior officers. Clear. Concise. Detailed. But you’ll find no record of the events that transpired on that night.” The Prince stopped and turned to look at Holmes to address him face to face. “Mr. Holmes. I am not a man given to flights of fancy. I could almost be described as boring, preferring the company of my stamp collection to that of other people, but this is one of life’s events that I cannot come to terms with.”
“I can see by the look in your eyes that this troubles you.”
“We were about eighty miles west of the Azores. A storm, nothing to concern any reasonably able seaman, had just passed us by — we caught the edge of it. It was then that the mizzen look-out shouted that there was something approaching off to starboard, slightly astern of us. Within what seemed a matter of few minutes, this ship appeared from, almost out of, nowhere. Nothing save for a light mist.”
“Another Dutchman?”
“No, the Celeste.”
“But I thought…”
“Please, just let me continue for a moment more.”
Questions seeking answers, pounded in the skull of the detective.
Prince George looked out over the waters for a moment to gather his thoughts, then continued.
“Despite our hails, we received no reply. No signals. Nothing. We drew alongside and tethered to her while a boarding party was organised.”
Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes Page 15