Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Jeff Campbell

  “A weapon? Chemicals? Anything at all.”

  “No, nothing like that,” Mrs. Bradstreet remembered. “He put on his coat and gloves. I remember because he doesn’t usually wear gloves but I don’t see what this has to do with—”

  Our hansom pulled up before a modest home and Holmes lead us out of the cab. Mrs. Bradstreet hurriedly thrust a wad of uncounted notes towards the driver. Holmes guided her away, helping her up the steps and inside. The cabbie, obviously embarrassed to have his gallantry so richly rewarded, caught my eye. As I walked to his side the cabbie counted out his fee and returned the balance to me. Taking the money I followed Holmes and Mrs. Bradstreet into the house, placing the returned money on a table near the door.

  “You went outside and looked for him,” said Holmes, returning to the doorway. “Show me exactly how.”

  Mrs. Bradstreet did as she was told, looking first eastwards and then to the west.

  Holmes nodded. “I must ask you to wait here. Your husband might have a change of heart and return. If he does, he must find you. Do you understand?”

  Mrs. Bradstreet nodded. To my ears Holmes’ instructions sounded somewhat convenient but if Mrs. Bradstreet sensed this she gave no sign. Holmes returned to the street, pulling the door closed behind him.

  “An interesting problem, is it not Watson?” Holmes asked, his eyes burning with intensity. “We know Bradstreet to be an intelligent, capable man, well aware of the procedures the police would use to track him. Time is on Bradstreet’s side but we must play the hand we are dealt.”

  “How could Bradstreet have disappeared so quickly?” I asked.

  “There,” Holmes pointed, “Behind the drain pipe.”

  It was a small recess but, looking closer, I recognised that it was adequate to hide a man of Bradstreet’s build.

  “What do you suggest Watson?” Holmes asked.

  I started walking. “Having hidden himself so quickly he obviously knew she would be looking for him. He wouldn’t risk stepping in front of their home again.”

  “Correct,” Holmes said. “What else can we deduce?”

  “Nothing,” I confessed.

  “The gloves Watson, the gloves! You must have noted Mrs. Bradstreet saying her husband wore his gloves. Did that not strike you as odd?”

  “It is December,” I reminded Holmes.

  “Yet the weather is not harsh. Neither you nor I bothered with gloves. It is unusual and therefore informative.”

  “You know what it means?” I asked.

  “Obviously that he is planning something which will require the use of his hands,” Holmes said. “More importantly, the gloves indicate he departed with a scheme already in mind. If we accept Mrs. Bradstreet’s claim that her husband was untroubled this morning it follows he conceived this plan sometime today, likely as he walked home from work. You notice the direction we are taking?”

  “I do,” I said, admiring Holmes’ skill, “Towards B Division headquarters, Bradstreet’s path to work.”

  “Remember Mrs. Bradstreet’s assertion that her husband would not wish his body found. Obviously he cannot simply jump into the river or leap from a great height. To accomplish his goal he must discover a location where a body might remain undiscovered.”

  I nodded, considering Holmes’ words. “Might he attempt a method of suicide that would render his corpse—,” I paused, searching for the correct word “—anonymous?”

  “A worthy but misguided thought,” Holmes said. “You saw the empty table by the door. Had Bradstreet wished his corpse to remain unidentified he would have discarded his wedding ring, pocket watch, any items of a personal nature. Since he did not we can deduce his intention: he means for his corpse never to be found. Knowing this we must retrace his path as quickly as we dare, trusting we will notice whatever circumstance lead the Inspector to believe he could conceal his remains.”

  With nothing more than Holmes’ vague theory and his unassailable confidence we walked briskly through the fog-shrouded streets. I must confess I was less certain than Holmes. With a man’s life at stake I felt a tremor of doubt with each step. What if I missed a vital clue? Even so I could not deny that in a curious way the activity roused me, stirred me from the fearsome melancholy which had gripped me so completely. Friendships, it seemed, followed patterns and inevitably my association with Holmes drew me into the shadowed realms of betrayal and death. A landscape bearing the scars of greed and deception and littered with the remains of the murdered. Accompanied by Holmes’ sharp reason such morbid trappings became familiar, almost welcome.

  My eyes passed easily over the site, the wooden barriers and the excavated earth standing vigil over the deep hole. I almost walked by, had it not been for Holmes’ advice regarding Bradstreet’s expectation of using his gloved hands I would not have recognized the potential for burial. I gestured for Holmes attention and together we walked past the barricades and looked down into the pit.

  Bradstreet worked silently in the darkness. His gloved hands gripped a shovel left by one of the workmen, shifting the cold earth with determined efficiency. The Inspector had dug himself a neat little grave under the building’s foundation. A mound of dirt was balanced precariously behind timbers placed there for the purpose. Twine ran from the timbers down into the hidden excavation, cleverly placed so that a single determined pull might release the piled earth and fill in the grave. I was struck by both the arrangement’s ingenuity and the horridness of the death it promised. To dig your own grave, lie in it and pull a string to entomb yourself — I shuddered. Had I claimed the landscape of human misery familiar? It seemed there were always new horrors waiting to be discovered.

  “I must congratulate you on your inventiveness,” Holmes spoke down into the darkness. “Had your wife not come to me with such haste I doubt we would have been able to find you in time.”

  In the darkness of the hole I sensed Bradstreet pause at his work and, for an instant, consider his options. It felt to me as if Bradstreet might still leap into the grave and carry out his plan but — once the instant passed — I saw his shoulders slump in defeat.

  “I’ll not go back,” said Bradstreet, his voice heavier than I’d ever heard it. “I’ll not endanger her.”

  “There is much to discuss,” Holmes replied, “Too much for this conversation to be shouted up and down this pit. Let us take you to Baker Street where we might speak plainly. Agreed?”

  Bradstreet looked to Holmes, then to me. “Agreed,” he answered, placing his gloved hand in my mine and allowing me to pull him from the grave. Bradstreet’s clothing was, as might be expected, filthy but he brushed himself off as best he could.

  “We must at least pass by your home Bradstreet,” I argued. “Your wife is in a dreadful state. I doubt she’ll be able to rest until she has seen you alive with her own eyes.”

  Bradstreet looked ready to object but, dropping his gaze, he agreed. Holmes hailed a cab and in short order we were stopped outside the Bradstreet residence. Mrs. Bradstreet looked gratefully into the cab at her husband. The Inspector refused to acknowledge her, refused even to look her way. Mrs. Bradstreet was in a dire state but, after offering what assurances we could, we took her husband to Baker Street.

  “Now Bradstreet,” Holmes said as we settled into our customary places. “What is all this about? What has brought you to such a state?”

  Bradstreet, his expression haggard, looked at Holmes and opened his mouth as if to speak. The words seemed to catch in his throat and all that emerged was a strangled sob. Dropping his face into his hands the Scotland Yard detective wept openly.

  We tried to console him, well — in honesty I attempted to console him as Holmes waited and watched. After a time Bradstreet managed to contain his distress and somewhat compose himself.

  “Now Bradstreet,” Holmes attempted again. “Really, you know you cannot keep secrets from me. Would it not be better to simply tell me what has happened?”

  “I — I can’t Mr. Holmes,” Bradstre
et said.

  “Can’t?” Holmes asked.

  Bradstreet shook his head. “I know what I must do but—”

  “Now then,” I spoke sternly. “We’ll have no more of such talk. You cannot still be contemplating anything as ghastly as suicide. Holmes and I found you and we intend to help you out of your predicament.”

  Bradstreet looked up doubtfully.

  Holmes spoke up. “You question my abilities? Still? After all the crimes we have solved together?”

  “It’s not you I doubt,” Bradstreet said. “My situation, my predicament as you called it, is a prison with but one escape.”

  “No doubt it appears so to you,” Holmes conceded. “Prison walls always seem thickest to those within their embrace. Watson and I are free. From the outside we might spot some flaw, some weak point, to enable your escape.”

  Bradstreet looked into the red glow of the fireplace. “If only that were true—”

  “Then it is settled.” Holmes waved his hand as if the entire matter were ended.

  “No, Mr. Holmes.” Bradstreet shook his head sadly.

  “Come now,” Holmes urged. “What have you to lose?”

  “The last thing I still retain,” Bradstreet said, “Courage.”

  “Nonsense,” Holmes scoffed. “In the time I have known you, you’ve made many foolish errors. At times you’ve been lazy, on other occasions reluctant to pursue matters to their logical if unpleasant conclusions, but you’ve never been a coward.”

  Bradstreet shook his head. “You’re being kind.”

  “Am I?” Holmes asked, leaning back in his chair and studying Bradstreet carefully.

  Bradstreet looked up and met Holmes’ gaze. Weary as the Scotland Yard man was, a smile tugged at his lips. “Well, you’re not a fellow given to acts of charity Mr. Holmes, I’ll give you that.”

  “Quite so,” Holmes agreed. “I see things as they are. Now, if you are determined not to speak to us of your troubles—”

  Bradstreet shook his head glumly.

  “—then your stubbornness leaves us no alternative but this: You will remain here for the next five days, during which time we must have your promise that you will not attempt to injure yourself. Should Mrs. Hudson discover your corpse in these lodgings she may well make good on her threats to evict me and we cannot have that. In exchange for your promise, I offer a promise of my own. If after five days I have not found a path to your deliverance then you shall have my silence. I shall not share the particulars of my investigation, or of your self-murder, to anyone. Is this satisfactory?”

  Bradstreet considered the proposal for a moment, but I knew he would agree. He nodded, his weary expression resigned in the red glow cast by the fire.

  “Excellent,” Holmes said. “After all the cases we’ve worked together I at last have you as my client. Gentlemen I suggest we get some rest, the hour is late.”

  I saw Bradstreet to my old room and laid out some bedclothes for him. His exhaustion was such he swayed on his feet. When I returned to the drawing room to retrieve my jacket and cap I saw Homes in his dressing gown, seated on the floor by the fire, his pipe already lit.

  “Holmes,” I said as I shrugged into my coat. “You will—”

  “Of course,” Holmes said.

  Thus assured I left Baker Street for my own empty house. My thoughts were troubled, as they so often had been of late, but exhaustion overtook me. I slept better than I had for many nights.

  I received word from Holmes early the next evening. A curt note instructing me to meet him on a street corner in a somewhat disreputable part of town. Hesitating, I opened the desk drawer where I keep my old service revolver. Remembering the despair I’d seen in Bradstreet’s eyes I loaded the weapon and placed it in my pocket. Thus comforted, I hurried to the address Holmes had provided. As the fading light of the day lengthened the city’s shadows I found my friend observing the comings and goings of a hotel across the street. As I approached, Holmes pointed to the windows of the hotel.

  “Second floor, third window from the right,” Holmes said by way of greeting. “Tell me what you see.”

  “Drawn curtains,” I answered. “How is Bradstreet?”

  Frowning, Holmes ignored my question. “You are not observing. Look closer, do you notice anything strange?”

  Reluctantly I turned and studied the window again. “I see the curtains are tightly closed. They appear to be pinned shut. Nothing unusual about the curtains, no bloodstains or other signs of mischief. That particular set of curtains are the only ones closed, is that what you want me to notice?”

  “No,” Holmes answered. “How can you be certain the curtains are not stained? Might they not be stained on the inward facing?”

  “No,” I answered. “The light behind the curtains is bright enough I would see any stains regardless of — Oh. I see.”

  Holmes nodded. “An unusual intensity of light, don’t you think?”

  “What do you think is causing it?” I asked.

  “I have no idea,” Holmes admitted. “To be honest I can not be entirely certain that room is our destination, although it is always wise to note the unusual. Often it plays a part in an investigation, directly or indirectly.”

  “Bradstreet?” I repeated my question.

  “Oh, he’s well enough. He remains in Baker Street, laid out in bed, no doubt contemplating new methods of self-destruction. After he retired I examined his belongings. I found this hidden in his billfold.” Reaching into his pocket Holmes withdrew a key. “I recognize it as one belonging to this establishment. The number indicates it opens a second floor room. Curious, isn’t it?”

  “Is that why we’re here?” I asked.

  “Partially,” Holmes admitted. “I also went to report to B division that Bradstreet’s illness would require an absence of five days or more. I told his comrades such was your opinion.”

  “You spoke truly,” I agreed, “Though it would have been courteous to ask me my opinion before presenting it.”

  Holmes waved off my chastisement, as I knew he would. “Furthermore, I informed the officers of B Division you wished to know Bradstreet’s movements for the day in order to pinpoint a cause for his poor health. It is quite remarkable Watson but the police are as simple to interrogate as anyone else. Their own experience of the art completely disappears as soon as questions are put to them.”

  “What did you learn?” I asked.

  “Mrs. Bradstreet’s account of her husband’s behaviour matches neatly with those of his fellows. If he was suffering in any way the detectives he works with failed to notice it. By all accounts Bradstreet’s behaviour that morning was entirely normal.”

  “And in the afternoon?” I asked.

  “Exactly,” Holmes nodded. “In the afternoon Bradstreet went to speak to some of his informants. Although nothing was spoken aloud, his fellow officers seemed of the opinion these ‘informants’ were unlikely to be the source of Bradstreet’s illness. As you might expect none of those present admitted to knowing the identity of Bradstreet’s appointment. Interestingly however, they switched from the plural to the singular when referring to Bradstreet’s afternoon errand.”

  “What of it?” I asked.

  “Each of them seemed fully aware of the identity of Bradstreet’s appointment,” Holmes explained. “None of them were concerned this informant was the cause of Bradstreet’s absence, certainly they asked no questions regarding such a possibility. One of the officers suggested Bradstreet met with this particular informant weekly. What does that suggest to you?”

  I shifted uncomfortably, not meeting Holmes’ gaze. An image of the handsome Mrs. Bradstreet rose in my mind. Stubbornly I replied, “I don’t know.”

  “A woman,” Holmes explained. “Such arrangements are not uncommon between members of the Yard and those they police. I admit I’d not suspected Bradstreet as being prone to such unfaithfulness but there it is.”

  “Still only a theory,” the protest sounded weak to my own ears.


  “Quite so,” waving Bradstreet’s key, Holmes gestured to the hotel, “Shall we put the matter to the test?”

  Reluctantly I followed Holmes across the street. We entered the hotel and, without stopping at the front desk, proceeded directly to the second floor. Walking down the hallway Holmes checked the number on the key and smiled. “Second floor, third window from the right,” he informed me, “Just as I suspected.”

  I nodded as Holmes opened the door. Bright light filled the room, a queer light seeming somehow to be simultaneously both white and green. Custom crystal lenses covered the hotel’s gaslights; glowing an almost blinding white. Looking down at my hands, the walls and the wooden floor, I discovered the light reflecting from these surfaces seemed green-tinged. Looking at Holmes I noticed he seemed suddenly ill, his skin grey in the unnatural light. My hands reflected the same unhealthy hue. Blinking in the strange illumination, I looked about the room.

  There was little to see. A desk and chair beneath the pinned curtains, a dresser and a bed. Spread atop the bed lay a woman, fully dressed, her head at the bed’s foot. She lay face upwards, eyes closed, her left arm stretched over her head while her right lay limp at her side. Such was the quality of illumination that I hurried to the unconscious woman’s side believing her to be dead. Reaching the bedside I observed the rise and fall of her chest. Touching her neck I felt a pulse, strong and regular.

  The woman did not waken. She did not even stir.

  My eyes travelled over the woman’s body, observing her as Holmes would. She was not a wealthy woman, the state of her clothing indicated she had been living rough for some time. She was young, her form slender but generous, large eyes in a narrow, appealing, pixie-like face, a wealth of golden hair spread over the bed. Even in the strange light of this place it was obvious why Bradstreet was attracted to the woman. Looking down on her I felt the stir of my own desire. I looked away, shaking my head. Holmes had been correct when he assumed the worst of Bradstreet. Disappointed I walked to where Holmes was searching the dresser drawers.

  “Nothing but a scarf, half a bottle of gin and this,” Holmes passed me a worn envelope containing a letter. Pulling the letter’s folded paper from its envelope I was confronted with the familiar handwriting of Inspector Bradstreet. The missive stated that any officer arresting this woman should contact him directly.