Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Jeff Campbell

  Blood had soaked the pillow. The entire body was twisted and wrecked, its limbs seared and charred. One of the unfortunate man’s arms was actually detached from the body, and lay on the floor.

  Approaching the bed, I lifted the mangled arm still attached to the body and felt it gingerly.

  “These injuries resemble the girl’s, Holmes. Not only is the flesh seared and burned, but the bones have been crushed. It must be the same killer, though God knows what method a person uses to inflict such damage.”

  “Dark forces are at work here, Watson. These murders may well become a series of killings unless we can intervene and solve the puzzle.”

  I had rarely seen him so serious. He turned briskly to the Inspector. “What news have you for me, Gregson?”

  Gregson started. “We do have some further information, Mr. Holmes. Our investigations over the last week reveal that Lillian Adams’ parents were also members of the Golden Dawn.”

  Holmes and I exchanged meaningful glances. “Then,” I ventured, “That would explain why the Marquis and Lady Adams entrusted their daughter’s care to members of the Order! They must have trusted their fellow members implicitly,” I said.

  Holmes clenched his fist. “The crime is certainly very peculiar, as well as violent. Where a fortune is involved, deceitful crime often arises! The financial benefits to someone, arising from the girl’s death, must be considerable. She was about to reach her majority, and would have come into her whole inheritance. Some person or persons unknown, who would stand to directly benefit by her death, have prevented that. But as to why Todhunter has been killed remains something of a mystery.”

  Holmes moved to the room’s centre and looked about. Amongst the furnishings, he noted an oaken side-table against one wall. Its open drawer hung out like a lolling tongue. Its contents were strewn upon the floor. We could not discount the possibility that something had been stolen, but what?

  Holmes fell into a brief reverie. “Todhunter was one of the appointed legal guardians of Lillian Adams, was he not?” he asked Gregson.

  The Inspector appeared astonished. “Yes, Mr. Holmes, we now know that is true. But how did you know?”

  “I must have a list from you Gregson, of the other guardians. They may be in the most terrible danger. I need all the names. I need them tonight!”

  Holmes strode out of the room, leaving myself and Gregson agape. We followed him down the stairs to the lobby. Holmes turned to Gregson once more. “Was Mr. Todhunter married?”

  “No, Mr. Holmes,” said Gregson. “He lived alone with his servants.”

  “Then there is no wife or children to concern ourselves with. Remove the body to the morgue, Gregson. Word of this must not get out. Caution the servants not to speak of it.”

  Holmes strode out of the house into the night, with a peremptory “Come along, Watson!” We returned poste haste to Baker Street.

  The next day, Gregson provided Holmes with a list. It contained the names of other Golden Dawn members who had been Lillian Adams’ legal guardians.

  There were five names and addresses on the list. First was Daniel Todhunter. Holmes dipped his nib in ink, and crossed that name out; clearly Todhunter was now beyond help. The four names remaining were as follows: Richard Felkin; Allan Bennett; Fiona Sharp; and Mr. and Mrs. Arnold Underhill.

  Holmes held up the list. “We must warn these people individually that their lives are imperilled. If we quiz them from a different angle to the one employed by the police, the culprit’s actual identity may also be revealed.”

  “We could split up and cover two each, Holmes. That would save time,” I suggested.

  “Splendid idea, old fellow,” said Holmes. For the next hour, over luncheon, he drilled me on what we should cover in our respective enquiries.

  My notes reveal that it was the 22nd November that we spent going about London to visit Lillian Adams’ former guardians. I took Felkin and Fiona Sharp. Holmes covered Mr. and Mrs. Underhill, though he was unable to interview Allan Bennett, who appeared to have left the Embankment address provided by the police. We reconvened at Baker Street after a wearisome day.

  “So, Holmes, do you fear there are dark forces involved in the crime we are investigating?” I began.

  Holmes leaned upon the mantelpiece as he gesticulated. “The devil’s agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not? What have you discovered today, Watson?”

  I shrugged. “Not much, I’m afraid. Richard Felkin took on the guardianship as a favour to Lillian’s parents. He did mention some factional in-fighting amongst Golden Dawn members, but nothing that would suggest a motive for murder.”

  “And Fiona Sharp?” queried Holmes.

  “A similar story,” I replied. “She took on the guardianship as a legal responsibility, but naturally none of the members would have expected to guard the girl from purely physical harm. Oh — one point of interest. Mrs. Sharp says the inheritance document was divided up into five portions, one given to each guardian. Mrs. Sharp still has her piece, and so did Richard Felkin, for I called back on him to verify this.”

  “I learned as much from interviewing the Underhills, Watson. Intensely interesting.”

  “You mean the open drawer at Daniel Todhunter’s? You think perhaps Todhunter’s segment of the will was stolen from his desk?”

  “Indeed, Watson. It showed great foresight on the part of Lillian Adams’ parents to divide their will that way. The guardians, charged with the responsibility of meeting with Lillian Adams on her twenty-first birthday, were to reassemble the document in her presence. Only if all five pieces of the will could be produced would the heir come into her inheritance.”

  “Ingenious, Holmes!” I exclaimed. “But how can the will portions benefit anyone now Lillian Adams is dead? Surely the assemblage of the documents would only benefit Miss Adams herself?”

  “No Watson.” Holmes began to pace. “Reading the portions we have reveals that the conditions included Miss Adams’ presence at the group meeting. If the girl were unable to attend, she would forfeit her inheritance, hence the importance to the killer of ensuring her death. But the killer also wants to prevent anyone else from gathering the will pieces together. Whoever has the complete document will be capable of claiming the entire fortune.”

  Holmes worked himself into an energetic fury. “The missing link is this fellow Allan Bennett. He has vacated his premises; it is suspicious. We must locate Bennett and ascertain what part he plays in this mystery. We are dealing with a particularly dangerous adversary, Watson.”

  At this point in the case, we seemed to have reached an impasse. Several days elapsed; the police had made no further progress with their enquiries. The surviving guardians had strict instructions to alert us if they had the slightest suspicion anything untoward was occurring, or if intruders were detected upon their property.

  Holmes had arranged, via Inspector Gregson, to take the three portions of the will he had recovered into safe-keeping. This at least prevented them from falling into the murderer’s hands, though as Holmes pointed out, it would not necessarily stop the murderer from attacking the other guardians, for the killer would not know Holmes held the will’s remaining pieces.

  As I prepared to retire for the evening, I looked around our rooms. The chemical corner and the acid-stained, deal-topped table were very dear to me, as was the shelf where Holmes kept that row of formidable and incriminating scrapbooks. Holmes toyed briefly with his violin, laid it aside and took up his pipe.

  “Will you go to bed, Holmes?” I asked with some concern.

  “No, I think I’ll sit up, Watson. There may be some aspect of the case that has escaped me so far. This is, I think a two, or even a three-pipe problem. Goodnight, my friend.”

  And with that, I was dismissed.

  The impasse was suddenly broken the next morning by the appearance of Mrs. Hudson with a card, bearing the name ‘Mary Lester’.

  Holmes’ eyes lit up. “What can bring her here at this early hour
?” he exclaimed.

  The woman calling herself Mary Lester was ushered in almost immediately.

  “I’m afraid you won’t know me, Mr. Holmes,” she said, in a melodious speaking voice. Her expressive eyes imparted her with a luminous beauty and commanding presence.

  “On the contrary, madam, I know a great deal about you. Let me examine your hands, if you do not object.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

  Holmes held her hands between his for a few moments. “I perceive that you play the harp,” he said.

  “Why Mr. Holmes, how could you know?”

  “The calluses left by the strings of that instrument are quite distinctive, let me assure you. They cross the fingertips from side to side. It is the psaltery harp, is it not?”

  “Why yes, Mr. Holmes. I use it to accompany my verse recitations…”

  “Which you perform upon the stage. But I am disingenuous. You were a Pre-Raphaelite model, were you not? I have often stood before Burne-Jones’ The Golden Stairs in the Tate Gallery, admiring your face amongst that of your friends.”

  She was taken aback. “Why, yes, Mr. Holmes, it’s quite true. May Morris, Jane Morris’ daughter, introduced me to London’s artistic and intellectual circles. You know, then, that Mary Lester is only my stage name?”

  “What?” said I. “Madam — your true identity?”

  Holmes smiled. “I recognised her as soon as I saw her card. Do you not recall, Watson, the many stage productions we have seen at the Folly Theatre in Charing Cross, and at the Gaiety? They gained this woman considerable critical acclaim. The lady before us is, I believe, Mrs. Edward Emery”.

  I puzzled over this. “Ah — yes — Emery, the actor. We met him and his actress wife backstage after a performance. Good heavens, —you’re Florence Farr.”

  The lady smiled radiantly. “Correct, Dr. Watson. Using my former stage name was a precaution in case my card fell into the wrong hands.” Some of her glow faded. “But I am no longer Mr. Emery’s wife. It is seven years now since Edward left for an extended American tour. I have just obtained a divorce on grounds of abandonment.” Her cheeks grew pale.

  Holmes frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “But I must come to the point. I have come here on another very serious matter.”

  “Pray continue, Mrs. Farr.”

  “The Golden Dawn was founded, Mr. Holmes, some years ago, in 1887. My sister Henrietta has reached the grade of Adeptus Minor in the Order. And her husband Henry Marriott Paget, the black and white artist, is a Philosophus.”

  “The Order’s degrees,” said Holmes. “Yes. Ah, it is Henry who is the brother of our friend Sidney Paget, is he not? So even in our own circle we are close to the Golden Dawn, Watson!”

  “Many of the most illustrious members of Britain’s artistic and social circles are involved in the esoteric, Mr. Holmes.”

  “So I am learning, Mrs. Farr. Tell me — what has brought you here to me?” enquired Holmes.

  “I have relied upon your reputation for rationalism, Mr. Holmes” said Mrs. Farr. “Although I have heard you may have studied in Tibet these last several years. Perhaps your passion for rationalism has been tempered somewhat by your experiences there?”

  “My experiences in Tibet have broadened my outlook considerably,” said Holmes. “Indeed, since returning, I have penned several trifling monographs, including one upon the rolang, or Tibetan zombie. Such curious folk-customs and beliefs have deep roots in the East, and begin to impinge upon us in the West. The Golden Dawn, as I understand it, purports to bring ancient Eastern wisdom to our own culture.”

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes. Now, to come to the point, it appears a demonic force has been unleashed. The police have quizzed many of my friends in the Order about Lillian Adams’ death. Now Daniel Todhunter has been slaughtered. Aleister Crowley may be responsible. He has been known to meddle with the Goetia.”

  “The Goetia?” I queried. “I am unfamiliar with the term.”

  “Medieval writings, Dr. Watson, grimoires containing conjurations capable of bringing onto the material plane the most foul and terrible forces imaginable,” she explained.

  “Ah, yes — well,” I said. “Some place credence in such things.”

  “Crowley is mixed up in this, mark my words,” said Florence Farr.

  Holmes pondered on this. “Perhaps it is time to interview Mr. Crowley. Can you effect an introduction? And I am certainly anxious to speak to Allan Bennett.”

  Mrs. Farr concurred. “I can certainly direct you to their residence. Bennett now resides with Crowley in Chancery Lane.”

  Holmes shot a glance at me. “Chancery Lane? That is near to where Lillian Adams’ body was found, is it not? Get your things, Watson.” I did, and we went out.

  We parted company with the extraordinary Mrs. Florence Farr. Then Holmes and I made our way, through streets filled with hay-carts pulled by draught horses, to Chancery Lane. We left the brougham’s leathery smell behind us as we disembarked before Crowley’s apartments. This area of London was full of medieval resonances; a perfect address, no doubt, for an aspiring magician.

  Holmes rapped the knocker at the door of the rather grand building. The door was opened by a tall, stooped gentleman with a shock of wild black hair.

  “Yes, gentlemen?”

  “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson. Are you by any chance Mr. Allan Bennett?”

  The man ran his fingers through his hair. “Yes, that’s correct. What is the occasion of your visit, Mr. Holmes?”

  Holmes was direct. “We have come in connection with the murder of Lillian Adams and Daniel Todhunter. I sought you at your Embankment address, but to no avail.”

  Bennett opened the door a crack wider. “I’m sorry if I put you to any trouble, Mr. Holmes. I was living poorly at that tenement slum south of the Thames. A fellow member of my magical order, Mr. Aleister Crowley, invited me to join him here. It is far more comfortable; I suffer acutely from spasmodic asthma, you see. But will you not come in, gentlemen?”

  Holmes and I entered, taking the opportunity to examine Bennett more closely, as his servant took our coats and hats and hung them in the hall. Bennett’s face was intensely noble; his brows, wide and lofty, overhung piercing eyes. The face would have been handsome save for a certain haggardness.

  “I have just opened an excellent claret,” declared Bennett. “Will you join me?” He ushered us into the apartment’s well-appointed sitting room.

  Holmes did not demur. “That would be most acceptable, thank you.”

  As we sipped the claret, Holmes queried Bennett about his role as one of Lillian Adams’ guardians.

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes,” said Bennett. “A portion of the will was given to me for safekeeping. I have it still.” He opened the drawer of a side-table with barley-twist legs, and extracted a document.

  “I will need to retain that, Mr. Bennett,” said Holmes earnestly. “You may be in some danger.”

  Bennett agreed reluctantly. Holmes folded the document and placed it inside his coat.

  “And Mr. Crowley? Is he here at present?”

  “No, he’s out,” said Bennett, “but he will be back before long.”

  “Splendid!” declared Holmes. “Then you can introduce us. Perhaps you would not mind showing us around in the meantime?” He glanced towards the place’s long corridors.

  Bennett nodded, putting down his empty glass. “Certainly, Mr. Holmes. I’ll give you the grand tour. You may be especially interested in our magical temple upstairs.”

  “I dare say,” said Holmes, with a wink at me.

  Bennett first showed us the other ground floor rooms. There was nothing exceptionally interesting there, though clearly Crowley and Bennett lived rather luxuriously.

  “Does Mr. Crowley pay for all this?” asked Holmes.

  “Yes,” said Bennett. “He received a large inheritance when his father died.”

  “And how does he benefit from your presence, Mr. Bennett?”


  “In return for room and board, I am teaching him all I know of magic,” declared Bennett. “And that is much, I can assure you, Mr. Holmes. Under my tutelage he has progressed rapidly in the Order. We have worked together at ceremonial Magick, evoking spirits, consecrating talismans, and so on.”

  Bennett led the way up the cold stone dusk of the broad staircase into a rose-gold palace. Gold-black Japanese wallpaper covered the rooms; the place was lit like a bordello by an ancient red-bulbed silver lamp. Leopard skins covered the floor and a huge crucifix in ivory and ebony adorned the wall.

  Bennett gestured. “This left side is our ‘White Temple’, used for white magic,” he said. Its walls were lined with six huge looking glasses, each six feet by eight. “For the purpose of throwing back the force of the invocations,” explained Bennett. “On the right you see our Black Temple.”

  This, actually a mere cupboard, was empty, save for a round altar supported by the figure of an ebony Negro standing on his hands, and a blood-stained human skeleton. On the altar a sickening perfume smouldered in a censer. The atmosphere stank of old blood, no doubt from previous sacrifices. Like the White Temple, the Black had a magical circle and pentagram inscribed on the floor.

  I was somewhat shocked to see such decorations; they hinted at dark doings which belied Bennett’s friendly and superficially innocent manner.

  “Highly unusual furnishings, Mr. Bennett,” commented Holmes dryly.

  “Not for the ritual magician, Mr. Holmes. Brother Perdurabo — that’s Crowley — believes he can revivify the skeleton through magical means. He feeds it on blood, small birds such as sparrows, and beef tea. He has, so far, never gone further than causing the bones to become covered with a viscous slime.”

  “Is that so!” exclaimed Holmes. “Do you encourage him in this?”

  Bennett looked momentarily abashed. “Crowley is a libertine, whereas I am ascetic. I have studied long in magic, but longer in the Eastern scriptures. I plan to become a Buddhist monk. I have tried to encourage Crowley to devote himself to ‘white magic.’ He enjoys breaking taboos. He is determined to become famous and I fear magic’s dark arenas attract him most.”