“Well.” I abandoned my defence of the Scotland Yard man’s virtue.
“Yes,” Holmes replied, accepting his victory modestly. Looking around he moved on to the next item of interest, the girl. “Seems likely the woman has been here for a couple weeks at least.”
“How do you deduce that?” I asked.
Holmes nodded to the waste bin in the corner. Several empty bottles of gin filled the container.
“She’s been here long enough that the staff no longer concern themselves with her,” Holmes reported. Waving to the footprints visible in the dust by the door he added, “No one has entered or exited this room today except for us.”
“That’s strange,” I said.
“Hardly,” Holmes said. “Staff in an establishment such as this are quick to learn what corners can be safely cut.”
“The bed is made,” I pointed out.
“But the linen is not fresh,” Holmes observed. “And look here, on her boot. Dried mud, from just outside.”
“Not surprising,” I remarked.
“But see how dry it is,” Holmes pointed out. “It would take several hours for the mud to dry so completely. She has remained motionless all that time.”
“How can you be certain of that?” I asked. In answer Holmes tapped a finger against the woman’s boot. The slight touch caused the mud to fall from its perch onto the bed linens.
I nodded, once again impressed by Holmes abilities but the detective had already moved on. “Her fingers are stained with ink. There’s no paper discarded in the waste bin. Check under the mattress, see if you can find anything there.”
I looked but found nothing.
“Where there’s ink, there’s a pen,” Holmes remarked. “Where there’s a pen, there’s paper.”
“Perhaps she mailed a letter,” I suggested. “Shall I wake her and ask?”
“Not just yet,” Holmes said moving towards the desk. “I would prefer to complete my examination of the room without her interference.”
Pulling open a desk drawer Holmes looked inside but found nothing. Sliding the drawer completely free of the desk revealed a journal. It had been hidden behind the back of the drawer, held in place by two small tacks and a length of twine. Journal in hand Holmes pulled out the delicate looking desk chair, sat in it and started flipping through the journal pages.
“Holmes, really,” I chided him. “You have no respect for privacy.”
“One of my many shortcomings,” Holmes said. In a louder voice, Holmes addressed the unconscious woman on the bed. “If you have any objection to my reading this journal you’d best speak now.”
The woman on the bed did not stir. Holmes continued reading. Pulling some hotel stationary from the desk he began making notes.
“Is it in code?” I asked.
“Not precisely,” Holmes said. “Although a combination of deteriorating penmanship and a general lack of experience regarding the written word make it seem so. I shall report my findings when I finish. See if you can do something about this abominable light, will you?”
Setting about my task I removed the crystal coverings from the light fixtures. They were of strange design, lighter than any crystal I had handled before. Inexplicably the light appeared to dim as I removed them, as if the coverings somehow increased the light produced by the lamps. A silly notion I confess, yet a difficult one to shake. With the crystal lens removed the room’s illumination returned to their normal, somewhat dim level. Holmes unfastened one of the pins holding the curtains shut, using the last light of the day to better see the journal pages.
Stacking the crystal lenses beside the door I took the only seat remaining in the room, on the edge of the young woman’s bed. In the new light she seemed flushed. With a physician’s reflex I laid a hand on her forehead to check her temperature. It was normal. Holmes glanced over to see if I’d woken her but, again, the young woman showed no sign of stirring.
“Well,” Holmes said, placing the journal back in it’s hiding place before folding his notes and putting them in his pocket. “A curious if somewhat sordid tale but nothing in it offers an explanation of Bradstreet’s behaviour. The last entry is days old and utterly incomprehensible.”
“I’m listening,” I said.
“According to the journal the young lady, she refers to herself as Sarah, was approached just over three weeks ago by a man who asked her to call him ‘Mr. Other.’ For her part Sarah saw nothing strange in a man withholding his name from her, indeed it was one of many aspects of this stranger she seems to have found amusing. Apparently Mr. Other approached her on the street one night, wearing a long coat, a wide brimmed hat, dark glasses and a long scarf wound around the lower part of his face. These obvious attempts to disguise his appearance intrigued Sarah. She found him strange, somewhat mysterious; she uses the word ‘otherworldly’ when describing him. Mr. Other made her a business proposition. In exchange for exclusive use of her he would provide a month’s lodgings, food and drink. Needless to say this arrangement delighted Sarah, not only from a fiscal perspective but because it provided her an opportunity to pierce his disguise.”
“Do you have any idea who she thought this mysterious stranger might be?” The question troubled me.
“Not really,” Holmes admitted. “At first she seems to be under the impression her employer was royal but she abandons that thought after spending some time with him. According to the journal she never saw Mr. Other’s face. Her first night here he came to visit but seemed content to examine her in a manner more medical than lustful. He did not remove his coat, hat or scarf. His dark spectacles remained on his face during their encounter and he wore gloves. Apparently satisfied with the results of this examination he presented Sarah with the journal and instructed her to remain in this room until he returned. In her boredom she fills several journal pages with speculation regarding Mr. Other, none of which is particularly well reasoned. After an absence of two days he returned to fulfil the contract of their employment.”
“Surely she noticed something that might be a clue to his identity,” I remarked.
“Actually no,” Holmes said. “Her journal is surprisingly explicit regarding their encounter. Theirs was an unusual joining in many ways, their intimacy was not — how shall I put this? —conventional. Sarah was not required to undress, Mr. Other did not remove his trousers in order to — I see this discussion is making you uncomfortable. As a physician I would have expected you to be less inhibited regarding such matters.”
“You are not a medical man,” I pointed out.
“To the rationalist,” Holmes replied, “all things are what they are. Neither embarrassment nor social niceties alter the facts of what occurred. At any rate it seems Sarah, who admits to consuming a generous amount of gin that night, lost consciousness at the conclusion of their business and did not see Mr. Other leave. He returned the next evening with gifts, informing her that she would bear him many fine children. Sarah remained silent on that point, well aware that an intimacy such as they had shared does not result in pregnancy. Following her employer’s instructions she remained in her room during the day, becoming increasingly restless. In the journal she contemplates the possibility her employer is disfigured in some horrible way. Her penmanship deteriorates and her thoughts become disjointed. It is apparent she became extremely bored, save for her weekly visit from Inspector Bradstreet.”
Frowning, I asked, “Didn’t you suggest Bradstreet visited only yesterday? Does she not write of that encounter?”
“She does not,” Holmes said. “But it is possible. In the last journal entries her handwriting degenerates past the point of legibility.”
“What of Mr. Other? Did he return?
“Yes, periodically, although none of his subsequent visits seem to have been intimate.”
“Does she write of these strange lenses or the light they produce?”
Holmes shook his head. “No. If we wish more information it seems we must talk to the author. Sarah has bee
n most obligingly disinterested in our investigation so far but if we are to continue we need to wake her. Watson, if you would be so kind?”
I stood, leaning over the unconscious woman. Grasping her shoulder with my hand I shook her gently.
“Sarah?”
There was no response. I repeated my actions, shaking her more firmly.
“Sarah?”
Placing both my hands on her shoulders I shook her again but the woman still did not respond. Beneath my hands the woman was warm but not fevered and, despite my attempts to wake her, soundless and utterly lax. Her eyes did not open, her peaceful expression remained untroubled, my actions did not so much as alter her rate of respiration. Sarah was completely unresponsive.
“Is she ill?” Holmes asked, rising from his seat and coming closer to the bed.
“She seems well enough,” I reported. “Her colour is good. She’s neither fevered nor chilled. Her pulse is strong and regular.”
Fearing the lady was under the influence of some chemical or narcotic, I leaned over the unconscious woman and pulled open her eyelid. She looked up at me without awareness, without acknowledgment, the lovely blue of her iris startling against the virgin white of her sclera. Her pupil did not contract as I exposed it to light but as I watched — I shudder to think of it even now.
In the black depths of her pupil something moved.
It was small, just the sharp point of a tail belonging to a small worm or insect. It turned, the segmented carapace uncurling its ghastly length as if in greeting. Startled, I staggered backwards, my heart pounding against my ribs. I thudded against the wall but, drenched in a cold sweat, I scarcely noticed. Looking up I found a horror mirroring my own in my Holmes’ expression. He’d seen it as well. My hand went instinctively into my jacket pocket, grasping the reassuring weight of the revolver there. I opened my mouth to speak but found myself incapable of forming words.
Shaking his head, blinking, Holmes sought to regain his capacity for language just as I did. Noticing something in the woman’s golden hair, Holmes found his voice. “Watson, she seems to be bleeding from her scalp.”
Pulling my hand from the revolver I stepped forward, my physician’s instincts overcoming my natural revulsion. Stepping around the bed I came timidly to where I could see her scalp, the tumble of lovely golden tresses spoiled by the bright red stain of blood.
“The wound was not there a moment ago.” Holmes said, stepping to my side. “I don’t—”
Something moved beneath the fall of golden hair, something small and sickly white in colour. It emerged with a rush of blood, somehow delicate in its repulsiveness. Tentatively it pulled itself free of the unconscious woman’s skull and eased itself onto the bed. I shuddered violently, feeling terror’s horrid electricity tremble my body.
Another tendril emerged from beneath the woman’s blood-soaked hair. Then another, and another, lifting, probing, and testing the freedom into which they emerged.
It wasn’t by overcoming my fear that I found myself in motion, rather it was as if fear itself guided me. Finding myself several steps away from the bed I looked about for a tool appropriate to my revulsion. The pistol was in my hand but I returned it to my jacket pocket. It would not serve me here, the horror before me presented too small a target. Seizing the chair Holmes had sat in, I lifted and struck it against the desk violently enough to shatter it. In my hand the chair had transformed itself into a cudgel. Stepping forward I approached the creatures emerging from the broken skull of the once lovely woman.
With the chair-leg cudgel I knocked the first of the squirming, crawling things to the floor. Once there, I clubbed it with all the force I could muster. Beside me I heard Holmes seize a length of broken chair and repeat my actions. Once I was certain the creature was dead, once I had smashed it beyond all recognition, I turned back to the bed where more of the foul things were emerging. The horror I felt did not allow me to cease my attack upon these terrible worms until each and every one was as crushed as that first. Panting, I looked around the room and heard for the first time the panicked knocking on the door.
It was a horrid site, one rivalling even the Whitechapel case in terms of horror. The woman Sarah lay on the bed, blood flowing from her crown, pooling on the mattress and dripping through to the floor. The remains of several dozen worm creatures were smeared on the floorboards, releasing into the atmosphere a sharp alkaline stench. The broken remnants of the chair littered the room. In the midst of this scene stood Holmes and I, each drenched in sweat, wide-eyed and grey with fear, panting like dogs as we clasped our cudgels.
Holmes, club still in hand, walked to the door and opened it. Outside stood a number of frightened people and I fear Holmes’ appearance did nothing to calm them. In a clear, reassuring voice, he spoke. “There has been an accident. Would one of you be so kind as to fetch Scotland Yard? Thank you.”
He closed the door as I staggered to the window. With the chemical stink of the crushed worm creatures in my nose I was desperate for a breath of fresh air. London air would have to suffice. I pulled apart the curtains and opened the window. Night had descended, filling the streets with shadows. As I opened the window I saw in the street below a figure in a long, dark coat. The wide-brimmed hat was tilted up towards the window, the lower part of his face covered beneath the windings of a long scarf and his eyes hidden behind dark lenses.
Mr. Other. Seeing me at the window the figure straightened suddenly, raising gloved fists in the air. It looked up at me and I felt the full force of its hate and impotent rage. As I watched it seemed to me the upraised arms straightened to an inhuman length. The body beneath the coat shuddered in a manner no being with a spine could duplicate. Startled and frightened I stepped back from the window.
Looking over my shoulder I saw Holmes examining the once beautiful Sarah. Her crimes were undoubtedly numerous but no one deserved a fate such as she had suffered. Holmes looked up and glanced my way, his expression eloquent enough. The woman was dead. Defiant I stepped back to the window.
Mr. Other was still there, glaring up at me. Dropping my cudgel I reached back into my jacket pocket and drew out my service revolver. On the street below Mr. Other saw my motion and turned to flee. I fired quickly, my view obscured by the discharge. The figure below continued to run towards the dark of an alley. I fired again and saw the fabric of his coat tear. As the bullet struck, the figure appeared to dissolve, falling from its man shape into the crawling form of a hundred large worms. The creatures hit the pavement below and quickly slithered into a sewer opening. The clothing it — they — had been wearing was carried with the migration.
Blinking in surprise, trembling in rage and shock, I was unaware of Holmes at my elbow until he spoke my name.
“Mr. Other,” I explained. “On the street below. I—,” The words were tangled in my throat. Holmes stepped forward and looked down at the empty street.
“He escaped?” Holmes’ brow furrowed as he spoke.
“No. He — Holmes, it was extraordinary,” I said. “He was not a man at all.”
On the street below two patrol constables appeared and hurried towards our hotel, lead by a concerned looking man.
“It may be best if we kept the details of Mr. Other to ourselves until we are able to speak privately,” Holmes said. “Agreed?”
I nodded, returning the revolver to my jacket pocket. Holmes stepped back to the door, opening it as the anxious constables arrived. Holmes told them everything that had happened in the room, explaining the gunfire by suggesting one of the creatures had tried to escape through the open window. By the time the coroner and the detectives of B Division arrived we had told our story many times. Several hours passed before we were allowed to leave but, due to Holmes’ reputation with the officers of B Division, we eventually found ourselves alone in a cab returning to Baker Street.
Reluctantly I explained what I had seen, what I thought I had seen. Even though I had witnessed the figure disperse with my own eyes I found myself
plagued by doubt. The dark street, the quickness with which events had unfolded and the emotional stress I’d endured of late, I recognised in my account legitimate cause for disbelief.
Once I had finished speaking Holmes turned to the window and looked out in the fog-shrouded darkness of the great city. For a moment he didn’t speak but considered my testimony, the passing streetlights casting shadows over the lean planes of his face. I expected him to voice the natural doubt I had heard reflected in my words but Holmes’ thoughts seldom trod the same path as mine.
“Have you considered the unusual illumination in the room?” Holmes asked, as if this were the obvious conclusion to my own account. “The strange crystals which fit over the lamps trouble me. It would be easier to assume that shaking the girl woke the creatures within but it is equally plausible to conclude their awakening resulted from the normal light entering the eye. Perhaps the strange light cast by the crystals inhibited this reaction, I can think of no other purpose for the presence of the lenses. Can you?”
“No,” I admitted.
“And it is safe to assume Bradstreet reacted as we did,” Holmes continued. “Finding the girl, attempting to wake her, pulling open her eye and making the same ghastly discovery we did. Remembering the intimacy they had shared, finding her in so dreadful a condition, the natural assumption would be to assume he was infected as well. Unwilling to confess his infidelity to his wife, and equally unwilling to risk spreading the infection to her, he chose instead to end his life. I am confident that is the cause of his suicide attempt.”
I nodded. “Bradstreet isn’t the type of man to seek advice about his indiscretions.”
Holmes leaned forward, anxious to hear my next words. “And do you have advice for him?”
“I do,” I answered. “As a physician I would inform him the chances of him being infected are low. Isolation at the police hospital would serve him better than annihilation. Thanks to the journal Sarah kept we know how long it takes for symptoms to appear. I would say a three week hospital stay should suffice. If Bradstreet shows no symptoms after that period he should be free to resume his life. Nor does the Inspector need to confess his failing to anyone further. I know the truth and will be happy to oversee his case myself.”
Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes Page 31