Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Jeff Campbell

  Holmes permitted a thin smile to cross his face. “I think you may be mistaken there, Perkins.” And he pulled from his waistcoat pocket a document which looked exactly like the others. “I have the fifth piece here.”

  “Impossible!” screamed Perkins. “I took the fifth piece from that fop Todhunter. It’s been locked up all this time, guarded it with my life!”

  “Take a close look at that fifth piece, Perkins,” said Holmes, with some amusement. “Look particularly at the seal.”

  Perkins held it up. Affixed to the document’s lower edge was a wax seal, and a piece of red ribbon.

  “What name is inscribed beneath the seal?” asked Holmes. “Is it that of the Marquis of Trowbridge?”

  Perkins trembled. “Why — no — no, damn you! It’s — You’ve tricked me! I don’t know how, but you’ve tricked me! You’ll die for this, Holmes.” He pointed his pistol directly at Holmes’ head. I flung myself at Holmes just in time; we both went down. Almost simultaneous with a deafening report, the bullet entered the panelled room’s far wall. Holmes and I were sprawled at full length, and the room filled with pandemonium.

  “I had it! I had possession!” cried Perkins. “Possession, I tell you!” As he shouted, brandishing his pistol, something highly uncanny occurred. From where we lay, we saw Perkin’s body begin to shift and change. The outline of his body developed a reddish aura, and his form became progressively more unclear. His figure seemed to be swelling, growing. In a few seconds there was a vision before us such as I hope never to witness again.

  “Asmoday!” cried Crowley. “The demon has possessed Perkins!”

  Perkins had transformed into a massive, ugly, protean shape. The rapidity with which it changed was astonishing. I believe we glimpsed it with the heads of a bull, a ram and a man. It was black, and fiery, and horrible beyond words.

  Crowley leapt to his feet and drew something from inside his coat — the text of his banishing prayer — the fabled Black Sutra. The demonic shape that had been Perkins raged away from him, overturning furniture, which splintered under its fury. The other men and women cowered before it. We began to cough as a hellish stench of sulphurous fumes assailed our nostrils. Crowley was bellowing the banishing prayer above the din.

  Then, the demonic shape seemed to slow a little, as though the sutra was having some effect. Everything happened so quickly we were all too stunned to move.

  Suddenly the black shape, now like a vast cloudy mass of darkness, lunged. Crowley went down beneath it, the parchment sheet with the sutra fluttering to the floor. I could see he had been knocked unconsciousness. The whole atmosphere of the room vibrated with malevolent force.

  Holmes scrambled for the parchment, picked it up, and rose from the floor. To my astonishment, he began to read aloud in the foreign tongue which Crowley had been using. He was finishing the banishment!

  The black cloudy mass began to waver. It grew pitch-black and then light by turns. Flashes of electrical energy coursed through it, and struggling within the miasma we saw fragments of Perkins’ form, convulsing as though in his death throes. As Holmes cried aloud in a thunderous voice the incantation’s final words, the black hideousness began to recede, grew dim. Suddenly, it was gone, and on the floor before us lay Perkins’ body. Holmes collapsed to his knees in exhaustion, head sunk upon his breast. I crawled to Perkins’ side, but he was dead.

  Only then did Inspector Gregson and his men emerge to help us take charge of the situation. Bennett was helping Crowley to his feet.

  Holmes confronted Crowley with uncharacteristic ferocity.

  “You harboured this villain in your home. Your meddling with dark magic may have led him to conceive the plans whereby he killed two innocent people. And now the evil could only be bested with my assistance. It does not escape me that you may have assisted Perkins deliberately. Your presence is like a plague-spot in London. Let us see no more ‘demons’ caused by your incorrigible tampering with forces beyond your control.”

  Crowley, though still unsteady, drew himself up in defiance. “I assisted you, Mr. Holmes. You are right that on this occasion things got out of control, but it was not I who killed those people. I was not greedy enough to take possession of the Marquis’s will. This is a case where the magical law of return applies. Perkins himself could not control the forces he drew around him, and it is that which has destroyed him.”

  Holmes stepped back. “We must agree to differ. If I were assured of your eventual destruction I would, in the public interest, cheerfully accept my own.”

  He turned to Allan Bennett. “And you, Bennett — you would be well-advised to become a monk as you plan. The magic with which you toy places innocent lives at risk.”

  Bennett nodded, wheezing. “There is truth in what you say, Mr. Holmes. Come, Aleister. Let me take you home.” They supported each other from the room.

  The police escorted the stunned members of the Golden Dawn into the cool night air, away from the awful fumes which still pervaded Felkin’s apartments.

  On the pavement, Holmes shook me by the hand. “My dear fellow, I knew you would not let me down!” he murmured. We returned, exhausted, to Baker Street.

  There, we took some refreshment and rubbed lineament on the small wounds we had incurred during the eventful evening. Whatever the outcome of the inheritance, it certainly would not be Perkins who got his hands on it.

  “Holmes,” I exclaimed, “I’ve never seen anything like it — surely one of the darkest cases in your annals. What led you to finish reading that incantation?”

  His deep-set eyes gleamed as Holmes replied. “Certain forces demand the application of counter-forces, Watson. Whether or not we subscribe to the belief that a ‘demonic force’ took possession of that scoundrel Perkins, I believe the sutra acted as a type of dispersing agent upon the villain’s psychological state.”

  “But we all saw that — whatever it was!” I stammered.

  “Our vision was clouded, Watson. But Perkins may have mastered some hypnotic technique, causing us to imagine we saw a demonic shape,” said Holmes.

  “How did he come to be the killer?” I asked. “He seems the least likely of men to have been so depraved.”

  “Not so, Watson. Consider the facts. He had worked for the Marquis and Marchioness of Trowbridge. While in their employ, he had every opportunity to learn not only their plans for distributing their inheritance, but of how the document was dispersed amongst the Golden Dawn members for safekeeping. I believe he intended to steal Lillian Adams’ inheritance very early on. In fact, if the police re-investigate the circumstances of the fire which killed the Marquis and his wife, they may very well link Perkins to that tragedy. His nature was to be so consumed by greed as to accelerate the crime.”

  “But what about the killings, and the crushed bones? The violence of those killings was surely beyond him?” I persisted.

  Holmes stood with hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets. “Perkins was forced to take a lowly-paid job with Crowley. He probably hated his new employer; his reduced circumstances likely fanned the flames of his desperation. According to my observations, he was exactly the type who would have abused his position. Remember, he assisted Crowley and Bennett in their rituals, evidently learning much of their magic. When a man whose pent-up emotional force is entirely focussed on one goal, and that a criminal and black-hearted one, he may well become ‘possessed’ —possessed with hateful, evil forces; yes, even possessed of a superhuman strength which he believed came from a demonic force he purported to control.”

  “Well, we’ve come through it Holmes. Your methods have triumphed again. This will make a substantial tale for The Strand,” I ventured.

  “No, Watson, you must not publish. This tale is not yet for the telling.” He looked sternly at me. “And I don’t believe we’ve yet heard the last of Mr. Aleister Crowley.”

  “All right, Holmes,” I sighed. I did not press the point.

  Holmes clapped me on the shoulder. “You saved m
y life tonight, my old friend.”

  “Nothing fantastic in that, Holmes. You would have done the same for me.”

  Holmes’ stern look softened. “Indeed I would, my friend,” he said, reaching for his clay pipe. “Good old Watson.” And he began to exhale great clouds of blue smoke as he gazed up at the ceiling.

  The Affair of the Heart

  Mark Morris

  My friend Sherlock Holmes is rarely given to emotional outbursts, and so it was with great surprise that I visited his Baker Street rooms one afternoon to find him excitable almost to the point of agitation.

  “My dear fellow, come in, come in,” he exhorted, ushering me, with his long-fingered hands, to make haste.

  I entered his study and crossed to my usual armchair. “Whatever is the matter, Holmes?” I asked, perplexed. “You appear quite shaken.”

  “Shaken?” said he, looking momentarily surprised, and then he gave a curt nod. “Yes, perhaps you could say I was a little shaken, though I rather think I am more intrigued than anything else.”

  “You have a new case?” I asked hopefully. I was all too aware of the state of unshakeable torpor into which my friend sank when he had nothing of substance to occupy his brilliant mind.

  “I believe so, yes. A puzzle, at least,” said he. “Allow me to draw your attention to the object sitting currently upon my writing bureau.”

  The object to which he referred was a plain box, constructed of teak or perhaps sandalwood. It was larger than a cigar box, though not excessively so.

  “What does it contain?” I asked. I was quite settled into my armchair now and hoped he might furnish me with the information.

  His thin lips, however, curled upwards in the faintest smile — for, after his initial outburst, he had swiftly regained his accustomed composure. “Why don’t you judge for yourself?” he suggested.

  I sighed, rose to my feet and crossed to the bureau. It was only now that I noticed that the box was sitting on a sheet of stout waxed paper, which, from the pattern of its creases, had evidently been used as a wrapping for the object. Close by was a carelessly-discarded length of twine.

  Curiously I reached out and raised the hinged lid of the box. Immediately an odour assailed my nostrils, an odour which, in my previous professional capacity as an army surgeon, I had been acquainted with on a regular basis. It was the bloody, raw odour of human meat, and its unexpectedness in these civilised surroundings compelled me to recoil in surprise.

  Holmes said nothing. He merely observed me with narrowed eyes. Recovering my wits, I leaned forward once more, observing that whatever was causing the disagreeable odour was concealed within a blood-stained sheet of the Evening Standard. I reached out and peeled aside the enfolding leaves of newspaper, exposing the corrupt flower within.

  “Good lord!” I exclaimed, glancing at my friend in horror. “It’s a human heart!”

  Holmes was still observing me with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. “Quite so,” he said, “but you are absolutely certain, Watson, that the heart is human? It is not perhaps the organ of a sheep or a pig?”

  I shook my head. “No, no, I am quite certain. The heart is undeniably human. But whoever sent it, Holmes? And for what purpose?”

  “It was sent by someone who wishes me harm, this much I know,” said my friend.

  “You think the heart is a threat of some kind? Or perhaps a warning?” I asked him.

  “I know it to be so,” he remarked. “Remove the heart from its box, if you will, my friend.”

  I am not readily given to squeamishness, yet even so, lifting the newspaper-enfolded heart from its resting place and setting it down on the sheet of waxed paper was a most unpleasant experience. The wrapping was soaked through with blood, which had now mostly congealed, and even through its flimsy binding the organ, which had been separated from its parent body, felt cold and clammy in my hands.

  “Now, Watson,” Holmes said, “if you would be so kind as to remove the envelope now revealed.”

  I looked again into the box, and saw that resting beneath the heart had been a cheap white envelope, stained and speckled with dried blood. This I removed and examined carefully. My scrutiny, however, unveiled nothing, save that the envelope was blank, bearing neither the name nor the address of its intended recipient.

  Holmes gave an abrupt nod in response to my questing glance. “I see that you are wondering whether there is a missive within and whether you should remove it. There is, and you should,” he said.

  I duly lifted the flap of the envelope and plucked out its contents. The missive took the form of a single sheet, folded in the centre. The envelope had protected the sheet from all but the faintest speckling of the fluids which had leaked from the heart. I opened up the letter and ran my eyes across the short message which had been scrawled upon it.

  The message read thus: Your time is up, Mr. Holmes.

  It was not uncommon for my friend to receive threats upon his person from criminal parties he had crossed during the course of his various investigations, though it must be said that this particular threat was of a most singular nature. I re-folded the note and replaced it in the envelope. “Have you informed the police of this matter?” I asked.

  Holmes pursed his lips. “I have not,” he admitted.

  “Why ever not, Holmes?” I cried.

  “Because this is an uncommonly personal attack, is it not?” he said. “And one to which I would like to apply myself with single-minded rigour. Also there is one peculiar irregularity to this matter which appeals greatly to my deductive capabilities.”

  “What irregularity?” I asked him.

  “It lies with the copy of the Evening Standard in which the offending organ is wrapped.”

  I glanced at the crumpled sheet of bloodied newspaper in some bewilderment. “The Evening Standard? What of it?”

  Holmes smiled craftily. “Examine the newspaper more closely, my dear Watson, and tell me what you find,” said he.

  Obligingly I transferred the heart to the sheet of waxed paper and scrutinised the newspaper as requested.

  “This is a single sheet of the Evening Standard, torn down the centre, and comprised of pages 5 and 6,” I remarked eventually. “The stories on these pages strike me as wholly unremarkable, consisting in the main of the daily dealings of the financial district.” I looked at my friend in frustration. “Dash it, Holmes! Stop beating about the bush and tell me what I am missing,” I demanded.

  Holmes extended a finger and pointed. “Observe the date, my dear fellow.”

  With a sigh, I turned my attention to the date running along the top of the page — and having noted it, I gave a sudden start. For a moment I doubted the efficacy of my own mind, and found myself wondering whether, by some oversight, I had miscalculated the days of the week. But no; this was undoubtedly Wednesday the 21st of April. There could be no question of it.

  I regarded my friend in utter bafflement. “The newspaper bears tomorrow’s date,” I said.

  Holmes himself seemed amused — and more than a little delighted. He was not a man given to voluble expressions of glee, but the emotions which danced in his eyes could hardly be denied.

  “Indeed it does, Watson,” he said, “which presents us with a most remarkable conundrum, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  I examined the newspaper anew. “Surely there is a simple explanation?”

  “Which is?”

  “That the newspaper is a fake.”

  Holmes smiled. “Naturally that was my first thought also — but it was one which I quickly discarded.”

  “But why?” I asked, baffled.

  “Consider the facts, Watson. For what purpose would this hoax be concocted? To baffle me? To procure my attention? Surely the delivery of a boxed heart would achieve such an end in itself? It strikes me, therefore, that the trouble and expense required in devising and printing an authentic reproduction of a newspaper page bearing tomorrow’s date is elaborate in the extreme. Elaborate almost to the point
of being utterly meaningless, in fact.”

  “So what are you suggesting, Holmes?” I enquired. “That the page is somehow genuine?”

  “I suggest nothing, Watson,” Holmes replied. “I merely conjecture.”

  I looked again at the array of objects before me — the bloodied newspaper, the waxed wrapping, the length of twine, the box (which I now observed was velvet-lined), and of course the still, cold heart.

  “So what else have you deduced from this macabre delivery?” I asked, sufficiently acquainted with my friend’s methods to know that he had not yet told me the entire story.

  Again a smile twitched at Holmes’ lips. “Am I really so transparent, Watson?”

  “On the contrary, it is when you have the scent of fair game in your nostrils that you are at your most inscrutable.”

  He said nothing, but I knew he was pleased by my remark. He lifted the wooden box from the bureau and handed it to me. “Tell me what conclusions you draw from this.”

  I turned the box over in my hands, determined not to hurry my examination. “It is certainly well-made,” I said, “and not inexpensive. These indentations here in the velvet interest me.”

  “What do you make of them?” Holmes asked.

  I knew from the way he framed his question that he had already formed an opinion. “Some hard object pressing repeatedly against the soft velvet,” I ventured. “Something flat, but with several protuberances.”

  “Perhaps this small stain here, beneath the larger stains of blood, will aid you,” my friend said, indicating a tiny spot of discolouration on the dark velvet.

  I took a magnifying glass from the drawer of Holmes’ bureau and examined the stain minutely. “It appears to be oil of some kind,” I surmised.

  “Excellent, Watson!” exclaimed Holmes. “It is oil. It is clock-oil.”

  “Clock-oil,” I repeated. “Then these indentations must be made by…”

  “The winding mechanism of a small carriage clock. Precisely!” Holmes interrupted.

  I replaced the box on the bureau. “It is well-deduced, Holmes,” I said, “but I confess I do not see how this information is useful to us.”