Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Jeff Campbell

  “Thank you.” Holmes turned to the Fitzgeralds. “The workmen who were employed: were they local men, or from further afield?”

  “There were a handful of local men, Mr. Holmes,” replied Mrs. Fitzgerald, “but the man in charge had to obtain most of the workforce from further away, some as far as Coventry. As I mentioned, there was some considerable ill-feeling towards the late owner of Lufford Abbey.”

  “Considerable indeed, if it extended even after his death,” remarked Holmes. “Were you both here while this work was being carried out?”

  “No; it would have been far too inconvenient. We had regular reports from the man in charge, and my husband would come by on occasion to check on the progress — or rather the lack of it.”

  “Thank you,” said Holmes. “Mr. Low?”

  “I was going to ask about the dogs,” said Low, “the ones which you felt were responsible for the damage. Do you know for a fact that Karswell kept dogs?”

  “No,” replied Mr. Fitzgerald slowly. “Indeed, it did strike me as odd, as from what we knew of him he seemed unlikely to be a man who kept pets.”

  “This damage they caused; was it general, or confined to one particular place?”

  “Again, it is very odd, Mr. Low. One would not expect dogs to be particular as to where they caused damage, yet it all seemed to be located in the one room, on the first floor. It is a very fine room, with views out over the park, and we understood that Karswell used it as his study.”

  “What sort of damage was caused?”

  “Well, as my wife said, it appeared that the animals had clawed around the base of the wooden paneling in the room. Quite deep gouges they were, too, which is why the wood needed to be replaced.”

  “Do any of the marks remain?”

  Mrs. Fitzgerald drew in her breath sharply, and Mr. Fitzgerald’s already pale face seemed to go a shade whiter. It was a moment before he answered.

  “When we took up residence my answer would have been no, Mr. Low; none of the marks remained. However, since then they … they have returned.”

  “Returned?” said Holmes sharply. “What do you mean?”

  “I will come to that in a moment, Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald. She paused, as if to gather her thoughts, then continued with her tale.

  “As I say, we took up residence; that was in early March. At first all was well; we were busy settling in, and there were a hundred-and-one things to do and be seen to, and anything odd we put down to the fact that we were in a very old house that was still strange to us.

  “Gradually, however, we became aware that things were happening which were not at all usual. It began with a sound, very faint, in the room above us…” She broke off with a shudder, and Mr. Fitzgerald looked at her with concern.

  “Margaret, would you like me to continue?”

  “Yes please,” she said in a quiet voice, and her husband took up the tale.

  “At first we both thought that it was one of the maids, cleaning; it was only later that we realized the sounds were heard at times when there should not have been anyone in the room. You will forgive us, gentlemen, for being somewhat slow to remark on this fact, but at first it seemed such a trifling matter that we gave it little thought.

  “The next thing that occurred was a cold draught, which always seemed to play about the room. Now one must, I fear, expect draughts in a house as old as this, but we did not notice such a thing anywhere else; indeed, the house was, as my wife said, very sound, which made it all the more odd that it should be confined to this one room. We examined the windows and walls and around the door, and could find nothing to account for it. It began to be quite uncomfortable to be in the room, which I used, as Mr. Karswell had, as a study. I had hoped that as the spring approached the draughts would stop; but if anything they seemed to get worse.

  “The sounds had continued all this time; not constant, by any means, but frequent enough to become unnerving. We told ourselves that it was some trick, perhaps related to the draughts; but one evening we heard the sounds more distinctly than before. They seemed changed, too; if we had heard them like that from the first we would not have mistaken them for the footsteps of a person. It was a dull, heavy, dragging sound, rather as if a large dog was moving with difficulty about the floor. I would go to investigate, but I never saw anything, although I found that I did not care to be alone in that room.

  “Then, one day, one of the maids came to us, almost in tears, poor thing, because she said that she had been in the room to fill the coal scuttle and had heard what she thought was a growl, as of a large dog. She said that she had a careful look around the room, thinking that perhaps some stray animal had got in, but could see nothing untoward, and was continuing with her work when she felt distinctly something large and soft brush heavily against her, not once but twice, as if a dog had walked past her quite close and then turned back.

  “Of course we went to look — it was all we could do to persuade Ellen to go back in, even though we were with her — but found nothing. We reassured the girl as best we could, and my wife took her down to the kitchen so that she could have a cup of tea, and I took one last look round; and it was then that I saw the marks on the wall.”

  “These are the claw marks to which your wife has alluded?” asked Holmes.

  “Yes. As we explained, the paneling in that room was ripped out and completely replaced, and I remember thinking to myself what a fine job the men had done. So you can imagine my surprise and consternation when I saw marks on the woodwork. At first I thought that perhaps they had been caused by something being bumped against the wall accidentally, but when I examined them I saw that they were quite deep, and identical in every way with the marks which had been there before. I must admit, Mr. Holmes, that I was startled, to say the least, and I was glad that my wife had left the room, particularly in light of what happened next. For as I stood there, trying to make sense of it, I heard a soft, shuffling noise, such as a dog or other large animal might make, getting up and shaking itself. And then, before I could move, I felt something brush against me; something heavy, and soft.”

  “Did you see anything?”

  “No, I did not; nor, I will say, did I stay to look about more closely. I was on the other side of the door, and had closed it, before I could think clearly once more. When I did, I locked the door, and later told the servants that we would not be using that room for a time, and that they need not bother with it unless we told them otherwise.”

  “The servants,” said Holmes thoughtfully. “Have they been with you for some time, or did they work for Mr. Karswell?”

  “None of Mr. Karswell’s servants stayed on, Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald; “they were dismissed immediately upon his death. From what I heard of them I would not have wished to employ any of them. A queer, secretive lot, apparently, who were disliked almost as much as their master. No, the servants here have all been with us for some time, and I trust them implicitly.”

  “Has anything else untoward happened?” asked Holmes. “Have either of you noticed any signs of your things having been tampered with, or has anything gone missing that you cannot account for?”

  “No, Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald. “The — disturbances — seem confined to that one room.”

  “I think, then, that we should take a look at this rather singular-sounding room,” said Holmes, rising. “Will you show us the way?”

  We followed the Fitzgeralds out of the room and made our way up the stairs. The spring day was drawing to a close, and the lamps were lit throughout the house. Was it my imagination, or did the hall seem a trifle darker outside the door before which our host and hostess halted? Such a thought had, I felt, occurred to Flaxman Low, for I noticed that he glanced sharply up and down the hall and then up at the light closest to us, which seemed dimmer than its fellows. Before I could remark on this, however, Mr. Fitzgerald had produced a key from his pocket, unlocked the heavy door in front of us, and pushed it open.

&n
bsp; A sudden cold draught played around my ankles with a force which startled me, as if a tangible presence had pushed at me from within the room. I could see from the looks on the faces of my companions that they had felt what I did, and I confess that I hesitated for a moment before entering the room.

  It was a large room, and I imagined that it would have been pleasant in the daylight, with its wide windows looking out over the expanse of lawn, and the paneling on the walls creating a warm, rich glow. However, in the evening dusk, with lamps the only source of illumination, and the strange tale we had been told still ringing in my ears, it presented an aspect almost of malignancy. I had a sudden feeling that we were intruding in a place which contained dark secrets, and if one of my companions had suggested we leave I would have followed willingly. However, both Holmes and Low advanced to the centre of the room and stood looking about with penetrating glances, taking in every detail. Holmes turned to Mr. Fitzgerald.

  “Where are these marks of which you spoke?”

  “Over here, Mr. Holmes.” We followed him to one side of the room, where he knelt and pointed to a section of wall beside the fireplace, which was surmounted by a carved mantelpiece embellished with leaves and branches. We could all see plainly the deep scores running along the wood; they did, in truth, look like the claw marks of a large dog, although I would not have liked to meet the beast that made them. As Mr. Fitzgerald went to stand up, he glanced to one side of him, and uttered a soft exclamation.

  “There are more!”

  “Are you sure of that?” Low’s voice contained a note of urgency which was not lost on Mr. Fitzgerald.

  “I am positive! The last time I looked they extended no further than this panel” — he pointed — “but now you can see for yourselves that they continue further along the wall, up to the fireplace itself. I don’t understand it! The room has been locked for the last week, and no one has entered it, of that I am sure. What could be doing this?”

  “I have an idea, as I am sure Mr. Holmes does,” said Flaxman Low quietly; “although whether or not these ideas will agree remains to be seen.” He straightened up from where he had been crouching by the wall, running his hand along the marks, and looked around the room. His gaze seemed to be held by a large, ornately carved desk which stood close by. “You said that you purchased one or two pieces from the estate of Mr. Karswell. May I ask if that desk was one of those pieces?”

  Mrs. Fitzgerald gazed at Low in astonishment. “Yes, it is; but how did you know?”

  “Tsk, tsk,” said Holmes, approaching the desk, “it is quite obvious that while the other pieces in the room were chosen by someone with an eye for symmetry and comfort, this desk was not; it does not match anything else in the room. Furthermore, it is one of two desks in the room; the other is quite obviously used extensively, to judge by the papers, pens, ink, books, and other items on its surface, whereas this one is singularly clear of any such items. Not, therefore, a piece of furniture which is in regular use, which rather suggests an afterthought of some sort, here on sufferance only.”

  “You are quite right,” said Mr. Fitzgerald. “That was one of the items we bought from Karswell’s estate, as the original purchaser unaccountably decided against buying it. At the time it seemed a reasonable enough purchase, but for some reason…” His voice trailed off.

  “You found yourself unwilling to use it, and uncomfortable when you did,” supplied Low.

  “Precisely,” said Mr. Fitzgerald gratefully. “It is, as you can see, a handsome piece, and I had some thought of making it my own desk; but for reasons that I cannot articulate I always felt uncomfortable when working at it, and it was not long before I abandoned it altogether in favor of the other desk.”

  Flaxman Low walked over to the carved desk and ran his hand over it. “Karswell’s desk,” he murmured to himself. “That is certainly intriguing.”

  “Yes,” said Holmes crisply. “For there are few things which can tell us more about a man than his desk. Tell me, did you find anything in it?”

  “That is a curious thing, Mr. Holmes. When we purchased it the desk was, as we thought, quite empty, and I made sure that nothing had been left in it; there could have been something valuable which his executors should know about. I found nothing; but a few days later, I happened to be opening one of the drawers, to place something within it, and it stuck. I pulled and pushed, and gradually worked it free, and found a small piece of paper at the back of it, which had obviously fallen out and become wedged in behind.”

  “Do you still have this paper?” asked Holmes eagerly, and Mr. Fitzgerald nodded towards his desk.

  “I put it with my own papers; although I confess I do not know why, as it seemed without value.” He moved to the other desk, where he rummaged around in one of the drawers. The rest of us stood close together, as if by common consent, and waited for him to return. When he did he was holding a small piece of yellowed paper, which he handed to my friend, who held it out so that we could all read it. There, in a neat hand, we saw the following:

  Nonne haec condita sunt apud me et signata in thesauris meis.

  Mea est ultio et ego retribuam in tempore ut labatur pes eorum iuxta est dies perditionis et adesse festinant tempora.

  “What on earth does it mean?” I asked in some puzzlement.

  “Well, I wondered that myself, Dr. Watson. My own Latin is not, I am afraid, as good as it once was, but after a little thought I realized it was from the Vulgate — Deuteronomy 32, verses 34 and 35 — and translates as ‘Is not this laid up in store with me, and sealed up among my treasures? To me belongeth vengeance and recompense; their foot shall slide in due time: for the day of their calamity is at hand, and the things that shall come upon them make haste.’”

  Both men gave a start, and I could see that they were thinking furiously. “Treasures,” said Holmes thoughtfully, while Low murmured “Vengeance and recompense.” Both turned at the same moment and gazed at the section of wall where the claw marks were most visible. My friend glanced at Flaxman Low.

  “I believe our thoughts are moving along the same lines, Mr. Low,” he said quietly.

  “Yes,” replied the other, “although I suspect that our conclusions are slightly different.” He turned to the Fitzgeralds, who were gazing from one man to the other with a bewildered air, and addressed our host. “Will you kindly bring an axe and a crowbar? This may prove a difficult job.”

  “Why, yes, of course,” replied Mr. Fitzgerald. “But what is it that you are going to do?”

  “I — that is to say we, for I believe Mr. Low and I have come to the same conclusion — believe that there is a concealed space hidden behind that section of wall. That is an outer wall, I take it?”

  “Yes; yes, it is,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald. “Do you mean … do you think that…”

  “It is too early yet to say what I think,” replied my friend grimly. “But I believe that the solution to this mystery lies behind that wall, and the sooner we investigate the sooner we will put an end to the events which have puzzled you both.”

  Mr. Fitzgerald departed to find the required implements; but in the end they proved unnecessary. While he was gone both Holmes and Low searched the fireplace, running their hands along the carvings, and within a few moments of our host’s return Holmes gave a small cry of satisfaction. “Here we have it, I think,” he said triumphantly, and we all heard a click which, slight as it was, seemed to echo throughout the room, so still were we all. Our gaze turned to the section of wall which we had previously examined, and I do not know which of us was the most startled to see a section of the panelling move slightly, as if it were being pushed from behind by an unseen force. Indeed, this very thought must have occurred to each of us, for we all remained motionless for some moments. It was Low, followed closely by my friend, who finally stepped towards the disturbed section of wall, and together the two men grasped the edge of the piece of panelling which, we could now see, had moved. I stepped forward with a lamp, as did Mr. Fitzge
rald, while his wife stood behind us, peering anxiously over our shoulders.

  The two men pulled at the wood panel, and for a moment it did not move, as if it were being held from the other side. Then, with a sound very like a sigh, the panel pulled away from the wall, leaving a rectangle of inky darkness behind it.

  We all stepped back as a blast of icy air came from out the space thus revealed. After a moment we moved closer, and I held the light up in order that we could see inside.

  I do not know what I expected to see, but it was not the sight which was presented to my eyes. A small table, like an altar, had been erected inside the space, which was barely wide enough to accommodate a man, and hanging above it was an inverted cross made of some dark wood, which Low dashed to the ground with an exclamation of disgust. A set of what looked like vestments was draped over one edge of the table, on the top of which was a book bound in cracked and faded black leather, and several vials of dark liquid, while the topmost of the two drawers contained pens, ink, and several thin strips of parchment. When the bottom drawer was opened Low gave an exclamation which mingled surprise with satisfaction, and withdrew a series of notebooks tied together with string, which he slit with a penknife. He glanced through the books and looked up at us.

  “It is as I thought,” he said quietly, and Holmes nodded.

  “Yes,” said my friend, “we have found what I expected to find,” and he gestured to his left. Twisting our heads and looking down the narrow aperture, we saw that a set of rough stone steps was carved into the floor of the chamber, and apparently carried down between the inner and outer walls. “I have no doubt,” continued my friend, “that when those stairs are examined they will prove to communicate with a hidden door on the outer wall of the house, or perhaps a tunnel which leads to some secluded spot.”

  We were all silent, gazing down into the black depths which seemed to swallow the light afforded by our lamps. As we stood clustered together, there came again that blast of icy air, and a faint sound, as of padding footsteps. Low immediately moved back from the opening, and motioned for us to do the same.