Sherlock Holmes and the Servants of Hell

by Paul Kane

  But my mind was soon occupied by other things, feeling the trepidation at visiting this place which was – by all accounts – one step off Sodom and Gomorrah. “What do you think we can expect to see in there?” I asked Holmes in the brougham that was speeding us partway to our destination.

  “You’re a man of the world, Watson,” was all he would offer in reply.

  “I’m not a man of that kind of world,” was my response. I asked him again what I should expect and Holmes, as enigmatic as usual, came back with:

  “The unexpected, Watson. Nothing more than the unexpected.”

  It should have been a mantra for this whole episode, for nobody could have expected – or even suspected – what was ahead of us.

  After switching cabs to mask our intentions, we were greeted upon our arrival at the Vulcania Club – which was situated off the main road, in a secluded square of buildings in St. Marylebone – by two large men, who barely fit into their suits (in fact, they would have given Cecil Barbery a run for his money). One had a ragged scar down his face, across a completely white eye, and the other had horribly burned skin at his collar. I wouldn’t have fancied tackling either of them, even if I’d been armed – and it was a good job I wasn’t: as Holmes had anticipated, we were searched before being allowed entrance. A necessary precaution in a place where things could go horribly wrong within the space of a few moments.

  Our new monikers were Cook and Gibb, for myself and Holmes respectively; simple and easy to remember. And, once it had been established we were not carrying weapons – Holmes was allowed to keep his cane, however, thanks to the show he made of relying upon it to walk – we were escorted through into the lobby of the large house, filled with paintings depicting classical scenarios. Most seemingly involved women in loose-fitting togas, but there were also pillars and statues, including a replica of Michelangelo’s David and a less famous one of Tacita, Roman Goddess of Silence (Holmes later informed me), which was rather appropriate. Paintings lined both sides of a horseshoe-shaped staircase, which itself was covered with red carpeting. I peered into the smoky room on our right, to see people drinking and gambling at tables: cards, roulette... games I was familiar with from a time when I displayed less restraint than I did at that point. The more ‘respectable’ side of the club, I warranted.

  It wasn’t long before we were shown the other side. A man wearing a tuxedo introduced himself to us as the ‘Host’ – keeping his actual name out of the proceedings, though this had to be the fellow Mycroft had referred to as ‘Richard’ – and led us through the rooms at the back of the house, some filled with people, others with just a handful inside.

  Now, as Holmes said to me earlier, I am a man of the world. I’ve travelled, seen lots of strange – and, yes, even depraved – things in my time, but what was going on in those back portions of the Vulcania was enough to make the most experienced abbess at a brothel blush. Men – some, those not wearing masks or hoods, I fancied I recognised from the higher echelons of society, even a Judge – were doing the most outrageous things to the prostitutes provided, of both sexes. Either that, or having things done to them.

  One fellow I saw was chained up against a wall, being struck with a stick – the only thing protecting his modesty a small undergarment made from leather. Someone else was riding a virtually naked woman like a horse, holding on to her hair like a rein and whipping her violently as she spurred him on. In yet another instance, I saw a woman wearing only her corsetry, barking orders to a man lying on the ground – someone who quite obviously craved to be dominated. All this, while other acts of a more intimate nature were taking place that I won’t go into; suffice to say some of it still haunts my nightmares to this day.

  Our host was holding out his hand. “Gentlemen, feel free to... express yourselves in any way you see fit. Everything that happens at the Vulcania remains strictly confidential.”

  It was the only way these people would participate in the first place, and with other like-minded individuals around them. No doubt that simply served to excite them more, the atmosphere tinged with lust and desire. But it was only confidential as long as you did as the master of this place said, holding such things over their heads – perhaps even taking photographs with hidden cameras, I thought to myself. It was the kind of material we had been discharged to find, I reminded myself, and I looked across at Holmes pleadingly. Hoping against hope that we would not have to carry this charade on any further.

  “Thank you,” my friend said to Richard. “I think we are happy enough observing for the time being, though, before we...”

  The host smirked. “Of course, of course. First time is always a little awkward. But once you throw yourselves into it, I’m sure you’ll experience pleasures the like of which you’ve never encountered before.”

  There was a loud crack of a whip at that moment, and my attention was drawn to a man bent over a table, being lashed severely. And pain as well, I thought, wincing – though they were seemingly one and the same here.

  We spent altogether too much time in those back rooms for my liking – witnessing far too much. What Mary, God rest her soul, would have said to it all – to me – I had no idea. She would probably have just hung her head in shame. Again, I had to remind myself it was for the greater good; for the country. Though if it was being run by ‘gentlemen’ such as this, then I feared for the future of our Great Empire.

  We were approached a few times while we were there. On one occasion a young woman, dressed only in a robe open at the front, with gawdy make-up covering her face which I thought gave her the appearance of a clown, brushed up against me – her leg raised high and her arm across my shoulders. “Want me to show you a good time, sir?” she asked.

  I smiled as best I could and replied. “P-perhaps later, my good woman.” It was the only thing I could think of, but seemed to work and she smiled back, disentangling herself from me with a sigh. I tried not to show my relief.

  Once Holmes was sure we were no longer under Richard’s scrutiny, free to pick our way through the carpet of undulating flesh in room after room – each painted a different colour, which reminded me a little of those parties described by Poe in ‘The Masque of the Red Death’ (and look where that got them) – he tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Mr Cook,” he said. “Shall we?”

  “Not before time, Mr Gibb,” I replied. “I doubt anyone here will miss us.”

  We slipped out silently, heading back in the direction of the staircase – which would take us up to Monroe’s chambers on the second floor. Holmes reached across at one point, pushing me back against the wall when he heard someone walking through the lobby area, but they did not spot us. In fact, it was relatively easy to sneak around and up the stairs, as most of the staff and guests alike were occupied with their own tasks or amusements.

  Upon reaching the uppermost floor, my friend glanced left and right, making sure the coast was clear, and we made our way along the landing. “How will we know which door leads to Monroe’s room?” I whispered to Holmes.

  But he was already answering my question, heading towards an ornate set of double doors; an entryway fit for a king... well, the king of this particular castle at any rate.

  They were also locked.

  “What now?” I asked. “I can’t think you’ve brought your lock-picking equipment, Holmes, else you’d have lost it when we were searched.”

  He grinned, then, dropping the monocle from his eye socket and tracing the chain back to the pocket of his waistcoat. He pulled on it, so that the end came free – and attached to it was a small length of metal. Holmes used his fingernail to flip open the sides of this, so that by the time he was finished it resembled a key.

  “A skeleton key,” Holmes elucidated. Looking left and right one last time, he slotted it in the lock. At first I thought it would not work, but there was finally a click and we were in.

  Holmes slid sideways through the crack he’d made in the door, then closed it after me. I took
in the chambers, my mouth falling open. The walls up here were also covered with paintings, but they were more overtly erotic in nature than those in the lobby or along the stairs. There were antique Japanese silk paintings of various couples, and while I could appreciate the quality of the artwork itself, not to mention its historical value, I was taken aback by some of the acts they depicted: more explicit and intrusive than those happening beneath our feet downstairs, if you can believe that.

  There were scenes from that well-known Indian handbook on the subject, the Kama Sutra – depicting all manner of positions – sited along the far wall running towards the back. And while I recognised the style of Caravaggio – one could not be a friend of Holmes’ and not have a grounding in all the arts – these were paintings I did not recognise of his, perhaps even some that had been kept hidden? They certainly made works like his Amor Vincit Omnia look modest by comparison. Holmes pointed to a far corner of the room.

  “It looks to be an exact recreation of Catherine the Great’s ‘erotic cabinet,’” he informed me, “from her palace at Gatchina.” As I looked, I saw furniture – tables and chairs – that had men and women’s private parts carved into them.

  Here and there, though, were more primal works, including phallic African fetishes – although what fascinated me the most were the ones of figures with what looked to be nails banged into them. One was covered in the things, from head to foot – including, or perhaps that should be especially, at the groin. There were also representations of ancient gods... These competed for space with graphic engravings from Egypt, some of a more bestial nature, as well as those from ancient Greece and Rome: in one, some sort of horned half-man, half-animal creature (perhaps another god or even a demon?) was forcing itself upon a naked young maiden, her mouth a rictus of terror.

  Worryingly, that wasn’t the only reference to the Satanic – as Monroe’s chambers were also littered with images from Bosch (including his ‘musical hell’), Goya (where giants ate human limbs and witches held their Sabbats), and the more recent William Blake (there was a huge depiction of the Great Red Dragon – its wings unfurled, tail curling around beneath its bulk – hanging over Monroe’s gigantic bed).

  His reading matter also reflected this interest, from copies of Bolingbroke and Gilles de Rais’ diaries, to the German book the Malleus Maleficarum. There was simply too much to take in at a cursory glance.

  I think Holmes could see the state of shock I was in, and placed a comforting hand on my arm; it was like having the old Sherlock back for a moment. “Hold steady, Watson. We may yet see much more disturbing things before the night is over... and we have work to do.”

  Of course – the records we’d come here to secure. If we managed to obtain those, and avert catastrophe, I would at least feel a little better about what we’d gone through that evening. But Holmes, as he inevitably – and sometimes frustratingly – tended to be, was right. There were still more horrors to face.

  I began searching the place, but there appeared to be no obvious safes behind paintings, no hidden panels. It was Holmes, again, who struck upon the solution, using his famous methods of deduction: “Where else would a man so obsessed with hedonism hide something, but his very bed!”

  There was nothing beneath the piece of furniture, nor in the mattress or pillows, save for the feathers they’d been stuffed with. We got more than we bargained for, however, when Holmes triggered a mechanism by twisting one of the knobs at the foot of Monroe’s bed counter-clockwise. The wardrobe to our right, which we had also searched, finding nothing but clothing – both conventional and specialist – rumbled forward and sideways on a concealed track. The hole it left revealed what we had been looking for back at the Cottons’ attic room and were denied: a secret chamber within Monroe’s chambers.

  Or a passageway, at least.

  “Come, Watson,” said Holmes beckoning me, lighting the gas-lamps along the stone-clad walls through a narrow, snaking corridor to a small opening. In this room, somewhere within the heart of the house, were rows of drawers, seemingly set into the walls. None of them were locked, as we discovered when we tugged on their golden handles, so we began rifling through papers, photographs, receipts... soon realising that these were the very items we’d been sent here to recover. “Cram as much as you can into your pockets,” said Holmes, taking off his jacket and making a sack out of it, which he filled and tied up at the sleeves.

  “I think we’re almost there,” I said, suddenly noticing Holmes wasn’t beside me anymore. He was at the wall ahead of us, touching its surface. Then he began rapping on it with his stick. The noise sounded hollow rather than solid. Could it be that –

  I was no sooner thinking it than Holmes had found the trigger for yet another hidden door, which ground slowly sideways. It appeared we were only standing in an antechamber, and the real hidden room lay beyond.

  There was light coming from inside, a sort of faint glow. “Stay back, Watson,” said my friend, “let me go first.”

  I did as he wished, then waited a few moments. When there was no ‘all is well’ sign from Holmes, I followed him – and immediately wished that I hadn’t. He was standing, staring at what was in the room, as I soon found myself doing. I wanted to close my eyes, shut out the sights, but it was already too late.

  Huge candles on intricately carved stands provided the light, still burning brightly away – but I would have given anything at that moment for it to have been pitch black in there. Or would I? Perhaps that might have made it worse.

  There was blood, a lot of it. Spilt on the floor, used to paint markings that had a ritualistic air about them – although there were footprints in it as well.

  “Our friend again,” Holmes said through gritted teeth, and I knew he meant the vagabond from Spencer’s garden – for the prints seemed to tail off and stop. And even I could smell it this time; that strong, almost overpowering scent of vanilla blended with copper.

  I also saw that on several plates on the floor were the severed heads of birds – doves, if I remember rightly – plus a jug of yellow liquid that stank like urine.

  But it was the objects arranged in jars about the place that really unnerved me. Human organs in some kind of preservative: a liver here, a kidney there... and a heart, which looked to still be beating, though I put it down to a trick of the light.

  “Monroe?” I asked finally, and Holmes shook his head. It was then that I realised these must be the remains of the poor girl he’d brought with him to his chambers. Used as some kind of sacrifice; an offering of sorts to someone... or something. Of Monroe himself there was no sign, as with Spencer and Cotton before him.

  I hadn’t seen the likes of this since we stopped a monstrously evil Lord who was bent on using his cult affiliations to take over Parliament.

  My eyes were drawn to the front of the room, to a pillar that stood there. Unlike the elegant classical designs of those in the lobby, this one had an odd shape about it, due to the carvings on its trunk: bodies formed out of stone, naked, with limbs flowing into each other, ribs straining and faces framing each top corner. It was almost as if it was stone and flesh at the same time, and I fancied I saw those bodies moving, writhing, as if trapped beneath its surface. I blinked and the scene righted itself.

  As natural and flowing as the pillar appeared to be, there was a small hole in the centre of the design, where it looked like something had been removed.

  Holmes moved to step forward, dropping his ‘sack’ and stick – drifting as if pulled by invisible strings. He apparently could not help himself; when I placed a hand on his arm, to try to stop him, he shrugged it off. In moments he was there, trampling through evidence in a way that would have had him screaming with rage if anyone else had done it. He had his right hand up, fingers out and reaching towards the statue just as he had done with that false wall moments earlier. He was inches away, fingers of both hands brushing against the surface, touching the carven body parts.

  “It... it feels warm,” he ut
tered absently, his voice sounding strange, disconnected. Then his right hand moved sideways towards the cavity, fingers about to inch their way inside.

  I was all set to lunge forward and yank him back, out of what I felt strongly was harm’s way, when a voice shouted, “What the Hell is all this?”

  When I turned to discover the source of the cry, I saw our host Richard in the doorway – alongside one of the men from the entrance, the fellow with the unfortunate scar across his eye. Someone had noticed our absence from the party, after all. I wasn’t sure at first – for the man in the tuxedo was glancing about the place at the candles, the jar, the blood – whether he was talking about the secret room, its purpose, or the interlopers they’d caught snooping around inside it. In the end it mattered not, because they didn’t pause to wait for an answer.

  They simply attacked.

  The reflex in Holmes that manifested itself whenever he was in danger suddenly took hold and he turned his back on the pillar – snatching up his stick in the process. The larger man was heading in my direction, but Holmes propelled himself forward and sideways, into the giant’s path. “You take the barman, Watson!” he called back to me, ducking a swing from the larger man and striking him in the side with the stick.

  Richard, evidently taking exception to being called a mere ‘barman,’ raised his fists and engaged me. Now, I’m no stranger to the fine art of boxing, but the man clearly had no regard for the Marquess of Queensberry rules. A swift kick to my shin taught me the measure of him, but I retaliated by dealing him a jab to the face with my left fist, following it swiftly with an uppercut from my right that sent him reeling into one of the organ jars.

  I risked a look to see how Holmes was getting on, only to witness him holding up his cane like a staff, the scarred man bringing down his heavy hand to break the thing in half. Not missing a trick, Holmes smashed his two splintered sticks against both sides of the fellow’s head simultaneously. The giant staggered backwards, clutching his ears.