Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Jeff Campbell

  “Perhaps it is not useful by itself,” Holmes admitted. “After all, anyone may have an old clock-box lying about the place. But there are other factors to consider, Watson. This wrapping paper, for instance.”

  This time he indicated the sheet of waxed paper — and the moment he drew my specific attention to it, inspiration struck me.

  “It is butcher’s paper, is it not?” I said. “It is designed to contain the juices of the meats within. This twine too,” I added, picking up the tangled ball, “is of the hardy type used by butchers to wrap up their packages.”

  “Indeed, Watson,” said Holmes, “and now you will see that when we put the clock-maker and the butcher together we begin to get somewhere.”

  The clock-maker and the butcher. It sounded like the beginnings of a children’s rhyme. And yet my friend’s words set a small bell of memory tolling in my head. Mentally I sought the connection — and then at once I had it!

  “Ah,” said Holmes. “I see that you have grasped my meaning, Watson.”

  I nodded. “You are referring, of course, to the Boulting brothers. In my notes I believe I referred to the case as that of The Screaming Chapel.”

  The investigation, which had occurred some half-dozen or more years previously, had been a particularly grisly one. Holmes and I had become involved after the mysterious disappearance of Lady Miriam Allcott, the Earl of Salisbury’s daughter, from the village chapel. Although Holmes had eventually brought the kidnapper to justice, he had not done so quickly enough to prevent the torture and murder of the unfortunate young lady. The culprit, one Charles Boulting, had been the Allcott’s solicitor, and had developed a deranged and ultimately destructive obsession with Lady Miriam. After the elder Boulting’s capture, his two younger brothers — one a butcher, the other a clock maker — had appealed to the courts for leniency on account of their sibling’s reduced state of mind. However, the courts had not been lenient, and Charles Boulting had been sentenced to forty years hard labour for his heinous crime.

  “But if this is the work of the Boulting brothers,” I argued, “why have they left it until now to harass you?”

  “You have evidently not heard then?” said Holmes, and crossed swiftly to his side table, on which resided his pipe, a tray of breakfast leavings and a tightly folded copy of that morning’s Times.

  In his quick way he unfolded the newspaper and opened it, drawing my attention to what appeared to be a rather inconsequential story on page 10. The report was sombrely headlined, The Death of a Murderer, and gave a brief account of the final pain-wracked days of the aforementioned Charles Boulting, who had expired in prison after suffering an acute attack of brain fever.

  “So the motivation behind this gruesome delivery is simply revenge,” I said, putting the newspaper aside.

  “Revenge, indeed, but simple — no,” replied Holmes. “Consider the heart, Watson. It is fresh, is it not?”

  “I would estimate from its condition that it was still beating within a living body little more than twenty-four hours ago,” I confirmed.

  “So then, what we have here appears to be murder, or at the very least the plundering of a newly-dug grave, together with the additional enigma of a newspaper which appears to be from a day not yet dawned — and all for the sake of a vindictive prank? No, Watson, I will not have it! It is too fantastic! There is more to this bizarre situation than meets the eye — and I intend to, as it were, pierce the heart of the mystery!”

  So saying, Holmes became a dervish of action, snatching up his hat and coat and storming from the room. I hastened to follow, eager to ask what his intentions were, but before I could frame the question on my lips, he was sweeping down the stairs and out of the door into the street with the agility of a man half his age.

  Minutes later we were seated in a brougham, rattling through the London streets towards Shoreditch. Once again I exhorted him to take this matter to the police, and once again he refused me.

  “You and I, my dear fellow, are more than a match for the Boulting brothers, are we not?”

  “Perhaps,” I conceded, “but—”

  “Well then,” he interrupted me, “why hand the matter over to those less capable than ourselves, and risk them making a sorry hash of things?”

  Holmes was on stony ground, and I am certain that he knew it, but I had learned from past experience that there was nothing to be gained in arguing with him when his mind was made up. He informed me that the clockmaker’s premises, which belonged to Joe Boulting, the elder of the two remaining brothers, was situated in a small side-road not far from Shoreditch High Street. This was to be our first port of call. If our investigations here met with a lack of success, we would divert our attention to William Boulting’s butcher’s shop, several streets away.

  By the time we arrived at our destination, it was early evening and the majority of business premises in the area had closed for the day. The streets were quiet and the chill shadows lengthening as a smoky dusk crept across the sky. As the rattling departure of the brougham faded away, and an ominous silence slipped in to take its place, I turned to my companion.

  “Well, Holmes? What now?” I asked.

  “We will enter via the front door,” said he. “If Mr. Boulting is within, then we shall confront him. And if he is not, then all well and good. Come, Watson.”

  I followed my friend as he marched across the street to the small clockmaker’s premises, and watched as he rapped imperiously on the front door. However, there was no response either to this bout of knocking or to the several that succeeded it. Additionally, what we could discern of the interior of the shop beyond the front window display of various time-pieces was shrouded in shadow.

  Glancing swiftly up and down the street, Holmes removed a picklock from his pocket and made short work of the lock of the front door. Within seconds we had slipped inside and were closing the door quietly behind us. We stood a moment, listening, surrounded by no sound save that made by the gentle ticking of dozens of clocks.

  “Now,” murmured Holmes, slipping a revolver from the pocket of his coat and holding it out before him, “let us proceed.”

  I was glad to see that he had taken precautions against possible attack, yet the foolhardiness of this venture still rankled with me. Nevertheless I remained silent as I followed my friend into the dank and dusty building.

  We passed through the cluttered shop itself, and came upon a stout door at the back of the room. Holmes afforded me a slight nod, implying that I should ready myself for action, and then he stood back, raised his revolver so that it was pointing at the door at what would have been chest-height on a man, and called out, “Halloa!”

  For several long seconds, measured by the ceaseless and multifarious ticking around us, we remained motionless, Holmes with his revolver trained unwaveringly on the closed door, and myself standing at his shoulder, my fists clenched with tension. But we heard not a sound from the unknown room beyond — not a creak, nor a scuff of movement, nor a voice raised and then muffled in alarm.

  Motioning that we should use the wall to shield ourselves, Holmes reached out and swiftly turned the handle of the door. It opened immediately, and as Holmes gave it an almighty shove, so that it swung inwards at speed, he simultaneously leaped nimbly back behind the shelter of the wall, revolver still upheld in readiness.

  I have been embroiled in many a perilous escapade with my friend, but I confess that my heart was beating as rapidly as the ticking of all the infernal clocks in that place put together. After some seconds of inactivity, Holmes murmured, “Come, Watson,” and, crouching low, we entered the room.

  We found ourselves in a small but not unpleasant parlour, with the burning remains of a fire in the grate. In the gathering dusk the place was thick with shadows, though that did not prevent us from ascertaining that we were not alone. Lying face-down on the threadbare carpet, in a pool of blood that appeared almost to be black in the dimming light, was a man wearing a dark suit and a coat. The man was quite
motionless, but that did not prevent Holmes from keeping his revolver trained on the prone figure as he briskly crossed the room and knelt beside it. I saw him reach out a hand towards the fellow’s neck.

  “His throat has been cut from ear to ear,” he said without apparent emotion. “Quickly, Watson, bring some light. There is a candle on the table there.”

  I crossed to the small side table Holmes had indicated, upon which stood a half-burned candle. Extracting a box of lucifers from my pocket, I lit the candle and moved across to him. Yellow light flickered across his stern features, throwing his eyes and the his hollow cheeks into shadow.

  “Help me with this fellow, Watson,” he urged.

  “If what you tell me is true, Holmes, then I fear he is beyond help,” I said.

  “I know it,” he replied, “but I wish to satisfy my supposition that this unfortunate was the previous owner of our boxed heart.”

  Together, Holmes and I turned the corpse on to its back. Congealed blood had partially adhered it to the carpeted floor and as it yielded from its recumbent position, it was accompanied by a wet, and most unpleasant, sucking sound.

  Sure enough, as Holmes had surmised, a ragged, gaping cavity had been opened in the victim’s chest, within which could be glimpsed a bloody suggestion of shattered ribs. However, it was not this which caused me to recoil in horror.

  “My God, Holmes!” I exclaimed. “The fellow is the image of you!”

  It was true. Even in death, it was clear that the man lying terribly mutilated before us could have been Holmes’ identical twin.

  Perhaps it was merely the fall of candle-light which caused a momentary expression of terrible knowledge to flutter across Holmes’ thin face. Certainly for a moment he looked utterly undone — a sight both astonishing and terrifying to witness. Then his eyes narrowed and his lips set in a grim line. Almost roughly he lifted the figure’s right hand and examined it, and then he rolled back the leg of the trouser which concealed the corpse’s right shin and examined that too.

  “What are you looking for, Holmes?” I asked.

  “Evidence to support a theory,” he replied, “and I am afraid to say that I have found it.”

  Once again he lifted the corpse’s hand and bade me observe a small ink stain on the dead man’s index finger. He then rolled back the victim’s right trouser leg a second time and showed me a small white scar in the shape of a letter c on the fellow’s shin.

  “Am I to understand that you anticipated the presence of these blemishes upon the body?” I enquired.

  “You are,” Holmes confirmed.

  “So do I take it that you know who this poor chap is?” I asked in puzzlement.

  “I do,” said Holmes, “and so, Watson, do you.” He looked at me meaningfully.

  I confess to say that I was utterly perplexed by his statement. Holmes sighed, and without another word he held out his right hand and showed me the small ink stain on his index finger. Next he rolled up his right trouser leg to display the c-shaped scar on his shin.

  I gaped at the markings on Holmes’ body, which were not merely similar but identical to those on the cadaver. I do not mind admitting that my mind was whirling with confusion as I tried without success to make sense of the fantastical evidence before me.

  “But it’s impossible!” I spluttered finally. “Who is this fellow, Holmes?”

  “I was under the impression that I had made that quite obvious,” said Holmes wryly. “It is I, Watson. I who lie here butchered before you.”

  I fear that my face must have made a sorry picture at that instant. I looked from Holmes, to the murdered man, and then back to Holmes again.

  “Preposterous,” I said at last, and barked out a hollow laugh.

  “Preposterous indeed,” murmured Holmes, “and yet it is true. The evidence is irrefutable.”

  “But you are here, bold as brass, talking to me!” I exclaimed. “Even you, Holmes, cannot be in two places at once — or rather, in the same place twice over!”

  “I believe, my dear Watson, that this is a question of time rather than of place,” he said.

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Be so kind as to look out of the window there and tell me what you see.”

  Although baffled by his request, I nevertheless crossed to the window and pulled back the drape.

  “I see an empty yard, Holmes,” I told him.

  “And what time of day would you suppose it to be?” he asked.

  “Well … it is dusk,” I said, “or just after. What did you expect?”

  “Dusk,” he murmured. “So, judging by the newspaper, and more especially the lack of bodily decomposition, it cannot be more than twenty-four hours forward. But how many back, I wonder?”

  I shook my head. “I confess, Holmes, that I am utterly out of my depth. This entire situation is beyond me.”

  “Then I shall endeavour to clarify it for you, Watson,” he said briskly, “beginning with the newspaper.”

  He sprang to his feet and strode across to an easy chair on the far side of the fire, upon the seat of which was a discarded newspaper which I confess I had not previously noticed. He snatched it up and opened it out.

  “Aha!” he cried. “It is just as I had thought.”

  He crossed back to me and thrust the newspaper into my hands. “Examine this well, Watson, and confirm my belief that this is the very newspaper in which today’s gruesome delivery was wrapped.”

  It required no more than a cursory perusal before I was able to supply Holmes with the confirmation that he had requested. Like the bloodied sheet forming part of the package which had arrived at 221B Baker Street this afternoon, this particular newspaper was clearly imprinted with tomorrow’s date. Furthermore, pages 5 and 6 had been removed, the corresponding half of the sheet, containing pages 19 and 20, bore the slight raggedness of a tear down its left-hand edge.

  “Tell me, Watson, what does the available evidence now suggest to you?” Holmes asked.

  When I failed to provide an adequate response he shook his head.

  “Tch, I would have thought the explanation was obvious. Not merely is this a house of clocks, but it is a house in which time itself, whether by natural or artificial means, has gone awry. By crossing the threshold into this room, Watson, you and I have progressed approximately twenty-four hours into our own futures in the space of a single step. At some point within those twenty-four lost hours, I have been murdered, and my excised heart subsequently delivered to my past self at my rooms in Baker Street.”

  I listened to this ludicrous theory in astonishment. “Are you aware of what you are saying, Holmes?” I asked.

  “I am perfectly aware,” Holmes responded.

  “But it’s … impossible!” I exclaimed for the second time that evening.

  “And yet it is the only feasible explanation,” Holmes said evenly, steepling his fingers. “The situation seems impossible only insofar as we take current scientific opinion to be beyond reproach. However, if we dare to suggest, having been presented with fresh evidence, that scientific opinion is, in fact, fallible, then the matter adopts an entirely new perspective. My deduction, Watson, is based on the observation that time is a mutable substance, and therefore subject to manipulation. And as such, I believe our duty lies in preventing this grisly scene from becoming a reality in our own, still-unformed futures, and in bringing the perpetrators to justice.”

  I struggled to apply my admittedly somewhat staid mind to this fantastically convoluted mode of thinking. “But if we accept that your theory is correct, Holmes—”

  “It is correct,” Holmes interrupted. “But pray, continue.”

  “But if it is correct,” I resumed, “and we do prevent the Boulting brothers from carrying out this terrible crime, then won’t that mean that our presence here is forfeit? After all, if the brothers do not kill you, then they will not cut out your heart. And if they do not cut out your heart, then they will not deliver it to Baker Street. And if they do n
ot deliver it to Baker Street, then there would be no reason for us to be here. And yet we are here, Holmes — which rather suggests to me that we are caught in a trap of our own making. Indeed, are we not like mice, running round and round in our wheel with never a hope of escape?”

  Holmes barked a laugh. “Your logic is irrefutable, old friend,” he acceded, “and yet I would say that, unlike mice, we have wit and intelligence and ingenuity on our side. There is a way out of this conundrum, Watson. I am certain of it.”

  He set to pondering, his eyes narrowed. In lieu of my service revolver, which I had foolishly left in the drawer of my desk that morning, I crossed to the fireplace, lifted a large brass poker from the companion set, and hefted it in my hand.

  “Perhaps, Holmes,” I said, “the only answer lies in direct action. After all, you have your revolver, whereas judging by the wounds inflicted on your … on the body there, our enemies are armed with nothing more lethal than knives. I say, therefore, that we leave this place, inform the police, return to Baker Street and wait for news of the brothers’ capture. And even if the brothers were to find and challenge us between here and our destination, I cannot see how they could possibly defeat us.”

  “And yet defeat us they would, Watson,” Holmes said. “If we walk out of that door, then we are both dead men.”

  “Damn it, Holmes! How could you possibly know that?” I retorted.

  “Where do you suppose that door leads, Watson?” Holmes asked, indicating the now-closed portal through which we had entered.

  “Well … back into the room of clocks, of course,” I said — and then, in sudden realisation of the full meaning of his words, I added quickly before he could set me right, “and back into the past.”

  I experienced a glow of satisfaction at the possibility of having taken the wind out of my friend’s sails, but the sensation was pitifully short-lived.

  “Quite right,” Holmes murmured, “but which past, Watson?”

  I frowned, overcome by the unsettling, though not uncommon, sensation that the ground upon which I was standing was no longer solid beneath my feet. “I’m sorry, Holmes, but I am not entirely sure that I follow.”