Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Jeff Campbell

  Jephson was in trouble.

  Holmes abandoned his own plan, or was about to, when suddenly Sergeant Merry pushed him aside and descended the stairwell himself.

  Holmes laid Jephson’s suit on one of the examination tables in the warehouse, which now served as a small laboratory.

  “That’s all I found, Mr. Holmes. That and his helmet.” said the Sergent. “ I knew he didn’t want to wear the suit, but would he be foolish enough to take it off?”

  “I doubt it,” replied Holmes, as he cut out a small section of Jephson’s suit and placed it under the most powerful of the three microscopes.

  “Watson, take a look at this and tell me what you see.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Just tell me what you see.”

  Watson was indignant at Holmes’ tone but did as he was instructed.

  He adjusted the eyepiece to suit his own vision and began to examined the sample.

  You could have heard a pin drop in the room as Watson studied, adjusted, and studied again. After what seemed like hours, the physician raised his head, looked at Holmes, then to Merry, and back to Holmes.

  “Holes. Hundreds of tiny holes.”

  Merry reached for his kitbag and pulled out a hip flask. He took a much needed drink and then turned to the others.

  “So is he down there, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I have one more thing to check, before I can give you anything close to an answer.”

  Holmes removed the piece of wood from his sample bag and cut a small piece from it. Using the microscope, he studied the sliver with the same searching endeavour. No answers again. More questions.

  The detective wiped the sliver of wood with a finger and rechecked.

  He raised his head just enough to garner Watson’s attention.

  “I need to go back on board. I think I know what has happened. In fact, it’s still happening.”

  “You can’t be serious, Holmes.

  “I have to find out if my theories are right.”

  There was an air of uncanny familiarity about this scenario. Holmes would insist. Watson would question. Holmes would do what he thought was right. Such was the order of things.

  “I need two volunteers, Sergeant Merry.”

  “Just one more, Mr. Holmes. I’m in.”

  “Then be ready in thirty minutes, please Sergeant.”

  “Mr. Holmes…”

  “I have tests to perform,” Holmes interrupted, and I need you to have your wits about you, so no more medicine.”

  It was mid-morning and grey storm clouds were gathering above Mallaig. So too were the people; the watchers, all keen to see the ‘men in the funny suits’ lead by the great detective Sherlock Holmes.

  Some of the fisherman had heard rumours that this ship was a former plague ship and that it had been bought cheaply; and that it still carried the illness; and that they were all doomed to die in a spread of seeping boils and agony.

  A number of the watching group became more vocal in their protestation, unable to contain their unfounded fears and bias.

  “We don’t want that ship in here. It’s a devil-ship.” shouted one local, McGraw, a sinewy man, all muck and muscle and a twenty-five year veteran of the sea with a visage that looked as if another twenty had taken their toll.

  “We have important business here, now go about your business, you men,” came the reply from Watson, who now had one of the soldiers at his side.

  “Take it out and burn it. Send it back to the hell that spawned it. If you don’t, we will,” McGraw continued.

  The group, now numbering at least fifty, edged closer to the soldiers and Watson, finding bravery in their numbers.

  “There are more of us than you. Now stand aside and no harm will come to you. This is our harbour. Our livelihood.” McGraw revealed a cosh in his hand and his eyes gave no doubt that he was being goaded on by his sense of strange importance and would use every means at his disposal to carry out his desires.

  The group edged closer as the soldiers drew back to protect the civilian with them.

  “I advise you to stand back, there.” Watson said. How he wished for Holmes’ presence at this moment. He would act rather than react as was Watson’s lifelong action plan.

  “We ain’t taking any orders from your kind.” Dissatisfaction had settled on McGraw’s mind like a shadow. He acted … and led the rush.

  The air was suddenly penetrated by a single report from a standard issue, Martini-Henry, rifle.

  Everyone at the harbour-side turned toward the warehouse where Private Scott stood, looking down the hot barrel of his rifle. A small plume of white smoke lazily left the black steel tube.

  “My word!” exclaimed a rather nervous Watson as one of the soldiers whispered to him.

  “Scott … sharpshooter … one of the regiments best, sir.”

  “He shot me. He bloody shot me.”

  McGraw was kneeling on the ground, his cosh alongside him, clutching at his right forearm.

  Blood dripped on the cobbled stones.

  The group had begun to draw back to a more manageable distance.

  Two others came to McGraw’s aid and helped raise him to his feet. Private Scott’s barrel was trained on McGraw’s every move.

  Less than two minutes later, only a few of the fishermen remained.

  “Excellent shot, Private Scott. Thank you.”

  “I was aiming for his thigh, sir. I haven’t aligned this sight properly.” said the private.

  A look of mild discomfort and relief appeared on Watson’s face.

  Dr. Watson turned on his heels when he realised that that something … someone … was missing.

  “Where is Private Alten?”

  All he got in reply were blank looks and the shrugging of shoulders. Watson glanced up at the Celeste.

  “Damned fool.”

  Holmes’ movements were as cautious as a cat and, despite the heavyweight suit, were as deft. Down in the holds an anxiety hung in the air like a dark impenetrable cloud. The silence, due to the helmets, was the one sense that Holmes sorely wished was at his avail.

  He reached the first cage … empty.

  The second … empty.

  The deeper he moved into the belly of the ship, the greater his trepidation, regardless of his reputation. At the back of his mind was the missing, presumed dead, Dr. Jephson. But that drive for a definitive solution was too great … and he continued on.

  On the deck above, Merry’s own search revealed two cages empty and two with their occupants very much alive. As he turned to leave, he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye, a light rushing down one of the stairwells to the holds. The Sergeant moved toward the hatchways that led to the lower deck, to see what or who was responsible for the light. The big man knelt down and peered into the darkness. He then experienced the sudden pain of something sharp being stuck into the back of his hand. He pulled it back from the edge and took a close look.

  Nothing.

  A pain in the other hand … and another … and more.

  The man stood and saw them, fine gossamer that emanated from the walls and buried themselves in his hands and forearms. The pain was growing … and the feeling in his limbs fading. He saw the glowing and the walls begin to pulse.

  He prepared himself for something inhuman and found himself being dragged across the damp, wooden deck. All he could see was the passing of the struts and flooring of the top deck. Seconds felt like hours until he was aware that he was being propped up against a supporting pillar. His eyelids were paralysed open and saw Holmes’ face staring at him. He couldn’t hear a thing, but could just about understand what Holmes was trying to relay to him.

  Holmes’ slim stature belied the man’s strength. He was able to hoist the soldier to his feet and put him over his shoulder. Less than a minute later the Sergeant was staring at a greying sky … and Watson.

  Merry’s helmet was removed to aid his breathing which had become shallow.
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  Holmes’ took off his own headgear and looked up at the Doctor who was standing over the pair of them.

  “Watson, take him down and give him a shot of adrenalin. You’ll find a supply in the warehouse in a small, black leather pouch. I prepared the measures in advance. But hurry, before he goes into shock. And then strip him down and wash him. C’mon man, time is of the essence.”

  “We have one problem Holmes.”

  “Problem, what problem, speak man.”

  “Private Alten.”

  “What of him?”

  “He went back to the ship. To help you … to speed things up.”

  “The ignorance of youth. Alright, bring up buckets of water, that pouch I mentioned and your personal medical kit. I’ll go and get him.”

  “Can any of us help?”

  “No … I think the Sergeant may have helped save the Private. Have two men at the stern hatchway … and do whatever you have to do to get it open. And wait for my signal.”

  Holmes replaced his helmet and prepared to re-enter the darkness.

  The first of the tendrils went unfelt by Alten but within a matter of no more than several seconds, more of the fine hairs pierced his suit sending their dose of poison coursing through his veins. The digestive enzyme and poison mix began to go to work almost immediately. The tendrils held him in a standing position; like some kind of grotesque crucifix.

  Larger tendrils appeared, tightening on his suit. Still, the man would not fall. Would not cede to any one or any thing.

  The pain in his calf was different. Not like the sense of stinging from the first tendrils. This was deeper. It was as if the tendrils knew that they had a larger, unwilling prey and had to resort to more violent methods. Alten tried to pull away his right leg from the binding fronds. It fell clear. His leg had been cut away mid-calf. The pain in his left forearm grew and moments later the limb was literally stripped from the elbow.

  The agony was unbearable but the helmet silenced any screams.

  His body hung there, held up by the tendrils.

  Then the walls began to glow.

  Holmes found Alten in the midship, close to the stairwell that led to the upper deck astern.

  The detective hurled himself at Alten, his momentum breaking the bindings. The two men rolled on the lower-deck floor, covering Holmes in a mixture of blood and tendrils. He dragged the seriously injured soldier to the loading platform. On the top deck there was a major problem, they could not get the hold open.

  Private Scott stepped forward and handed Watson a small, circular hand-held device, black in colour about four inches in diameter and an inch deep.

  “Use this. Pull that pin, place it on the hatchway and stand back.”

  “What is this?” asked Watson.

  “Something we’re developing at Carrick. And I suggest now would be a good test.”

  Watson did as instructed. The four men stood back.

  The explosion caused an almost perfect hole and the platform was hastily lowered.

  Holmes, covered in splinters and light from the deck above, quickly removed his helmet.

  “Hurry with that platform,” he screamed. It followed with a loud crash, as it was dropped rather than lowered. Holmes cared little for finesse, it was here.

  He peered back into the darkness and moved quickly enough to avoid one of the thicker tendrils thrusting itself towards him. He pulled Alten onto the platform.

  “Now.”

  Above them, four soldiers pulled on the loading hoist with all their might and speed.

  Holmes looked over the edge of the platform and could see the tendrils squirming, moving, searching and all the while, avoiding the light.

  Holmes lay back on the platform and watched as the sky came ever closer. He felt his left arm go numb.

  Holmes opened his eyes and the first vision was not what he would have preferred.

  “Good to see you’re awake, old man,” said Watson.

  “How long have I been sleeping?”

  “A day … you were very fortunate, Holmes.”

  “Your suit was peppered with holes, not as many as the soldiers or that of poor Jephson, but enough.”

  “I’m beginning to understand, Watson, what it is aboard that ship. Perfect symbiosis. Fascinating that such two species work in conjunction with each other. The worms … or tendrils … have evolved so that while they inject a mix of poison to neutralise the nervous system, they also take enough nutrients to sustain themselves and also introduce a fast acting enzyme that reduces everything organic to something digestible by those microscopic insects that feed so voraciously.”

  “But how is it that some of the rats were harmed and others not? Answer me that.”

  “The creatures were sated. Simple as that. After the attack on Jephson, there was a window of opportunity for us … and the lucky rats.”

  “But why was the attack on Alten so much more violent?”

  “I can only surmise that a combination of higher pain threshold and a huge rush of adrenalin caused the worms to bind together to form larger, thicker tendrils. Perfect adaptation to its environment and food source.”

  “And what now?”

  “I would suggest that the boat be taken to sea and sunk.”

  “Sorry old man, the navy were here yesterday. She has gone.”

  “To where?”

  “That was not for me to know. They had signed documents from Prince George to support the removal.”

  “I need to speak to the Prince, as soon as possible. They cannot allow that species the opportunity to spread.”

  “I fear that our task has been completed, Holmes.”

  Holmes lay back into his pillows; his mind was full of questions and answers sounding like a continuous popping of corks. He’d solved a mystery but helped to unleash a hell.

  Chatham — Six Weeks Later

  The Celeste was now being housed in the huge, purpose built dry dock. Her masts had been removed and she was being stripped of all adornments that served no use to the group of men who watched the work being carried out from within the safety of a glass booth.

  “How has the progress been this week?” asked one of the men, dressed in a long dark coat.

  “Good. We’ve got the samples you requested, but we did have a minor problem,” replied another.

  “Define minor.”

  “One fatality and one seriously injured.”

  “Make that two fatalities and inform the families. Include the usual benefits.”

  “And you’ll take all responsibility.”

  “Just make it happen.”

  The man in the long coat turned to the man who was stood behind him; smoking his third cigarette in just fifteen minutes.

  “The progress so far, is it good enough for you, Your Royal Highness?”

  “It is. Give my condolences to the families … and keep me posted on Holmes.”

  The Best Laid Plans

  Robert Lauderdale

  I lay shrouded in darkness, alone in my bed, chasing the elusive balm of sleep. The glances and whispers are finished for another day but the weight of the accusation behind them still sits heavily upon me. It is a stone whose crushing mass I cannot escape nor, if I am to be perfectly frank, can I endure it much longer. Each night I feel a little more of myself slip over into the abyss, with each whisper another part of my soul is dashed into the cold, churning waters. Despite my predicament I cannot find within myself the anger with which I might combat their accusations. They are correct but — and here lies the root of the matter — they do not — can not — understand. There are times when I long for such understanding. Lonely, late night fantasies in which such an unburdening of my soul produces a new acceptance — even a degree of admiration — from my comrades. Watson always appears in these waking dreams, listening to my words with the same intent manner with which he always listened to him. In the end there is shock mingled with determination; I’ve never met a man able to express determination as well as t
he doctor. Something in the set of his jaw, the folds of his eyes, I don’t know. At the sleepless dream’s end I feel Watson clap my shoulder and I know he understands — and yes, even forgives — me. Laying there, wrapped in dirty linens and shadows, I weep with relief but in the dream I simply stand there, stoic, accepting his redemption as my due.

  When the light of a new day creeps in my window, as I stare down the gauntlet of another stage in my ordeal, I feel that redemption disappear. Burned away like the morning fog. Watson has no redemption for me. It has been nearly three years since last I saw the man, not since the death of his friend Sherlock Holmes.

  Not since the death which forms the crushing stone, the fall of the great detective which all and sundry believe to be the result of my negligence. My mistake.

  I hear the bird then and know it to be the dreadful raven of that night. She is near.

  Revulsion overcomes me, knowing the bird is looking with those cursed eyes through my window. Her harbinger. It is late and whatever tasks she busies herself with are complete. I do not wish to know. Embarrassing for a Scotland Yard Detective Inspector to admit, but I know

  I lack the courage to face such truths, just as I lack the ability to turn her out when she makes her way into my bed. Cold comfort is comfort still and I no longer lack the fortitude to deny myself even that which I know to destroy my soul. Still, my story belongs as much to her as to any of the others. The night we met, the night of my annihilation, the night which has endured three years worth of sunrises and nightfalls, is something the two of us share together. I wait, dreading her arrival but eager as well. Anxious for her cold touch and the slither of her tongue.

  All professions have their legends, incredible tales which can only be appreciated by those who practice within their unique trade. Scotland Yard is the same, indeed the Yard thrives on such mythology. No one who has passed through the arch leading to headquarters has forgotten that night. Holmes had sent us a package, a tidy little bundle wrapped in a blue envelope, held together with a black ribbon. Within were instructions, sheets and sheets of them written in his precise hand, each page carefully arranged and meticulously dated. Every officer of the Yard, including several who had been called out of retirement for this night, knew what the distinctive envelope contained. Even now I cannot help but marvel at the genius of the man, the audacity of the plan he presented to us. The greatest work of the great detective, carefully laid out in such a way as to ensure complete success. The day we had all waited for had at last arrived. Old scores and grudges nursed over years were at last to be reconciled. It was the day we were to take down the spider, the last day of freedom for the Napoleon of crime, the day and night in which — provided we obeyed our instructions — Professor Moriarty and those who followed his banner were to be brought to justice.