Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Campbell, Jeff; Prepolec, Charles

  “Rider?” I interrupted. “Like a horse?”

  “Much more dangerous than a horse.” Her words bore a strange flash of bravado, very much at odds with her feminine voice. “The person I am in that world has tasted the flesh of men and gloried in the spilling of their lifeblood. My rider believes I can become great. A beast so fearsome I will carry him beyond the red sun to where all his ambitions might be realized. Although I know such a path will be bloody indeed yet, when I am in that world, I find myself eager for the bloodshed.”

  “When I look up to the red sun the memories of my life here disgust me. Everything seems so weak and lonely, devoid of purpose or companionship. But when I am here the memories of the other world horrify me, such cruelty and wickedness. You see how I am trapped, don’t you? There is a choice to be made. I cannot exist between such extremes. I must be one thing or another. I am not large enough to encompass both. So when my rider commanded me to murder those men, I did so eagerly. I knew it would solve my unendurable riddle.”

  “Solve it how?” I asked.

  “I should think it obvious.” Catherine Drayson explained pleasantly, her brown eyes captivating as she spoke to me of murder. “If I have indeed killed men from this world then it proves the other world is more than a delusion. It follows then, having spilled the blood of living men, I no longer belong here. Knowing this I am free to commit myself to the world beneath the red sun. Oh, I admit I shall miss the compassion and independence of my life here but one cannot deny one’s nature. Besides, if I am truly a murderer, I cannot harbor any expectations of continued kindness on my behalf. Then again, if Mr. Holmes can prove my innocence, I shall abandon the other world. While I will miss my rider and — how shall I put it? — my savage half, it will be a relief to know such frightening deeds are nothing but a delusion.”

  “I see,” I spoke with a confidence I did not entirely feel.

  Holmes’ frown deepened as he listened to Miss Drayson’s explanation. “These men you claimed to have murdered, how did you learn their names?”

  The question seemed to puzzle her. For a moment she was silent as she considered her answer. “Yes,” she said. “I can see where that might trouble you. In truth I know their names only because I tasted their lives. You see, in the other world, when creatures such as I feed on our prey we gain a sense of our victims. Perhaps it would be more correct to say we gain a sense of who our victims were, for it is only in the last swallow of blood the knowledge appears. I knew their names because I tasted their names. Can you understand that Mr. Holmes? No, I see you do not but I have no better explanation to offer. However I came to know their names, you must admit I did know them. These men did exist and each of them was recently murdered.”

  “That has not yet been proven,” Holmes said.

  “It hasn’t?” Catherine Drayson’s childlike voice betrayed an adult note of hopefulness. Yet even as it built I could see it fade. “Oh, of course, Mr. Pursey was aboard a ship, wasn’t he? I should have recognized that I suppose. The small room with the ocean all about. Have you been able to contact him?”

  “Not as of yet,” Holmes admitted with ill grace.

  “And the other names I gave you?” Miss Drayson asked.

  “Mr. Mulchinock has been reported missing,” Holmes said. “His fate has not been determined. I should remind you that India is a savage land, full of perils for unwary travellers.”

  “Those are but two names from my list of five,” Catherine Drayson reminded him. “Nor have you disproved my contention they have been murdered. What of the remaining gentlemen on my list?”

  Holmes scowled, his expression answering her question more eloquently than words could have. The remaining gentlemen had been murdered and Holmes did not wish to admit it to her. Instead of answering her question, Holmes countered with an argument.

  “You could not have murdered any of these men,” Holmes insisted. “You were confined here, in the asylum.”

  “In the other world, Mr. Holmes,” Catherine Drayson said earnestly, “I have wings.”

  “Like an angel, Miss Drayson?” I asked.

  She smiled an ironic, humorless smile. “No, Dr. Watson, not in the least like an angel. You see Mr. Holmes? I doubt the guards who watch over us are prepared for inmates who sprout wings and disappear into other worlds.”

  Almost against my will I nodded as she said this, feeling she had spoken the simple truth. It was unlikely, after all, asylum guards would be instructed to watch the unimposing Miss Drayson in the event she unfurled hidden wings and flew off to sea with the intent of determining a sailor’s name by drinking the last drop of his blood. Still my unthinking nod was noticed by Miss Drayson who graced me with a grateful, pretty smile. Holmes also noticed my reaction, and glowered furiously at me.

  “You see Mr. Holmes,” Miss Drayson continued. “Your investigation has only just begun. You’ll wish to be paid of course, my father will see to the details. You understand they do not allow us currency in the asylum else I would settle our account now. Oh, and Mr. Holmes, there is one more thing I feel I should mention. I did not include it in my note as I was uncertain how to properly explain such a thing to you but now that you’re here, now that you’ve heard my explanations, perhaps you will understand. The last victim, Mr. Wolfe, as he perished I tasted a fear in his blood, a concern that his friend — Mr. Willingham — was in grave danger. I understood this to mean Mr. Willingham was likely to be my next victim. You understand I know nothing of Mr. Willingham beyond the fact Mr. Wolfe feared for him. I do hope you will be able to prevent his murder. When I am in this world I find thoughts of death and murder most distressing.”

  “Of course,” Holmes agreed, his expression humorless. “Miss Drayson, who told you of these murders?”

  Smiling in a friendly manner at Holmes, she answered sweetly. “If you have looked in my file, Mr. Holmes, and spoken to the doctors and staff here, you know I receive no visitors aside from my father. No doubt you will have noticed how newspapers and the like are not permitted within the institution? The staff feels news from the outside world is not helpful to those suffering nervous disorders. If that is all Mr. Holmes?”

  Holmes looked as if he wished to say more but was unable to articulate his questions. Instead he merely tipped his head to the slight girl. “I trust you will have a pleasant day Miss Drayson,” he said in farewell.

  “And you Mr. Holmes,” Miss Drayson returned the courtesy with a smile. “A pleasant and productive day.”

  Holmes stepped aside and, as if a switch had been thrown, Miss Drayson bowed her head and her expression slackened as she resumed her joyless walk along her invisible path. For a moment Holmes and I watched the young woman walk away from us. The detective’s hands twitched as he watched her. It seemed to me he was reaching for the pipe and tobacco which he’d unthinkingly left behind in Baker Street. Then Holmes turned and indicated with a tilt of his head that we should be leaving.

  “Holmes,” I asked when we were in the cab leaving the asylum behind us. “What on Earth was all that about?”

  In answer Holmes reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out a small, carefully folded note and handed it to me. The stationary was plain, the woman’s writing somewhat ornate but easily read.

  Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

  I am writing to you in hopes of securing your services. Much to my dismay, I have been witness to a series of ghastly murders. I wish for you to investigate the following deaths:

  Russell B. Wolfe: Killed in a room overlooking London’s Hammersmith Bridge.

  David J. Johnson: Killed in a flat with a large brass clock.

  Ronald A. Pursey: Killed in a small room with the ocean all around.

  Robert W. Elliott: Killed out of doors, on a city street.

  Jonathan E. Mulchinock: killed in a library not his own.

  It may make no difference however I feel compelled to add that each of these gentlemen’s murders occurred quite late at night.

  As
to the matter of your fee, I have enclosed my father’s address and a note to him explaining how very important this matter is to me. You must understand that there are decisions I am compelled to make but, until I know the truth of these crimes, I lack the information necessary to make such choices. Obviously if I am guilty of five murders such knowledge will affect the future I must select for myself.

  Appreciatively yours,

  Catherine Drayson

  I handed the note back to Holmes. “The Elliott murder was a sensation, of course. Anything so ghastly in such a public place attracts the curious. No doubt she read of it in the papers.”

  “As Miss Drayson correctly pointed out, news of the outside world is not permitted within the confines of the asylum,” Holmes reminded me. “Still, what are an institution’s rules against the power of gossip? I’ve no difficulty believing Miss Drayson learned of the unfortunate Mr. Elliot’s murder through the careless whispering of the asylum staff.”

  “And the other names on the list?” I asked.

  “Aye, there’s the rub,” Holmes said. “Mr. Wolfe was found murdered last week in his home and, before you ask Watson, he was killed in a room overlooking Hammersmith bridge. Like the sensational Elliott murder his death was both bloody and violent. Mr. Wolfe was beaten and repeatedly stabbed. Scotland Yard believes someone attacked him with an unusually large sword, possibly a weapon from the Far East. Unfortunately they did not think to allow me the opportunity to examine the body.”

  “Pity,” I remarked.

  “Indeed,” Holmes agreed. “David Johnson was murdered in the Charing Cross Hotel. His body was found beneath a large brass clock. Like Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Elliot, Mr. Johnson was cut several times with some manner of large weapon. As neither Mr. Johnson nor Mr. Wolfe’s deaths were as public as Mr. Elliot’s, the newspapers have shown little interest in their cases.”

  “Then Miss Drayson’s observations have been correct,” I said. Seeing Holmes’ frown, I quickly amended my statement. “At least, she has been correct three out of five times.”

  “I fear her average is better than that Watson,” Holmes admitted. “Mr. Mulchinock has not returned from a trip to the sub-continent. I placed a telegram to the hotel where he was meant to be staying. Although they disavow any knowledge of murder, they assure me the blood in the library has been thoroughly cleaned.”

  “Leaving just one, what was the name? Pursey?”

  “Departed on a lengthy sea voyage six weeks ago,” Holmes said. “I’ve received no word of his murder, nor have I been able to confirm his well-being. If, as Miss Drayson suggests, the gentleman was killed while at sea we will be obliged to wait before receiving word of it. If we disregard Mr. Pursey, whose status can neither be confirmed nor denied, it appears Miss Drayson is correct in all of her descriptions. Each of the known victims was, in fact, killed during the night. Furthermore, with the possible exception of Mr. Pursey, she has arranged the names in chronological order of their deaths. Mr. Wolfe being the most recent murder and Mr. Mulchinock being the first. Strange, is it not?”

  “Very strange,” I agreed.

  “Apparently Miss Drayson is being informed of these murders somehow,” Holmes said. “It is possible these deaths are connected. At least three of the deaths were achieved by similar means. Given these circumstances, if we could discover the source by which Miss Drayson learns of the crimes it may well lead us to the perpetrators. Ah, here we are!”

  The cab rattled to a stop and Holmes eagerly clambered out. “Where are we Holmes?” I asked as we emerged into the brightness of the day.

  “In her time at the asylum Miss Drayson has only received one visitor,” Holmes reminded me. “Likewise there is only one person with whom she has exchanged correspondence.”

  “Her father,” I said.

  “And we have been invited to discuss the matter of my fee with him,” Holmes said, his face alight with a hunter’s grin. “Many criminals feel an inexplicable compulsion to confess their crimes. Perhaps this father feels his confessions safely hidden in his daughter’s insanity. Let us discover what manner of man this Drayson is.”

  Confident the answer to his mystery was close to hand Holmes marched purposefully into the Drayson residence. Sharing Holmes’ enthusiasm I followed but nothing in the man’s home bespoke a murderous nature. Neat and ordered, it seemed a bachelor’s residence although here and there photographs and other mementos gave evidence of a happier past. Photographs of a child and her mother were scattered about, the resemblance to Catherine Drayson obvious in the mother’s attractive features. Other portraits showed young Catherine at various stages of her childhood, telltales of a doting father.

  “Mr. Holmes, is it?” Drayson greeted the detective uncertainly. Despite his immaculate apparel, Mr. Drayson appeared a tired, worn man. His was a thin face with a drooping, grey moustache arranged in a permanent frown. The father’s form betrayed the same slenderness as the daughter’s, and soulful brown eyes peered at us from behind round, wire-rimmed glasses.

  Holmes quickly explained our business, handing over the note Drayson’s daughter had prepared. Catherine Drayson’s father read the missive carefully and then pulled a checkbook from the drawer of his desk.

  “I do not think you fully understand the implications of your daughter’s message sir,” Holmes said as Drayson readied his pen. “You have not inquired if there is any factual basis to the murders your daughter describes. For all intents and purposes she has confessed to a series of monstrous crimes yet you have not requested any further information from us. You seem remarkably trusting sir, perhaps you’ve heard my name before?”

  “I have not,” Drayson said, his pen filling in the cheque as he spoke. “To be honest Mr. Holmes, it makes no difference to me if you are what you say you are or a charlatan. As a father I cannot afford to overlook any action that might result in a betterment of my daughter’s condition. In her note she claims you may be able to help her. Your fee Mr. Holmes? Please.”

  Holmes stated a figure.

  Drayson’s eyebrows rose and the father looked over the top of his spectacles at the detective. “Is that all Mr. Holmes? May I include an incentive, to insure this matter receives your full attention?”

  “Unnecessary,” Holmes assured the man. “My professional charges are upon a fixed scale. In any instance, a trail of five murdered men cannot help but attract the attention of one such as I.”

  “There have been murders then?” Drayson inquired as he completed the cheque. “As she describes them?”

  “Yes,” Holmes answered. “Though how your daughter knows of them is something of a puzzle. Her confinement is such that she should have no knowledge of such brutality. Unless you know some way by which such news might reach her ears?”

  “I do not,” Drayson assured Holmes as he handed the detective his payment. “Had Catherine been outside the asylum she would have told me of it and I know of no one there who would speak of such things to her.”

  “Yet she possesses more than a passing knowledge of these deaths,” Holmes observed. “I believe someone connected with these murders has spoken to her about them.”

  “I don’t understand,” Drayson said without suspicion. “You suspect a member of the staff?”

  “No sir,” Holmes said bluntly. “I do not.”

  “Oh,” Drayson said, blinking in surprise as the implication of Holmes’ statement became apparent. “As far as I know, I am the only visitor my daughter receives.”

  “That is true,” Holmes said with a pointed stubbornness.

  “You think I committed these crimes?” Drayson removed his spectacles and cleaned them thoughtfully. “I see the suggestion does not surprise you. Very well, I keep a diary of my appointments and activities. It reaches back several months and the older ones should still be here someplace. My diary should supply a reasonably complete record of my comings and goings. Would that be helpful to you Mr. Holmes? Is there anything else I can provide you with that may prove my inn
ocence?”

  Holmes spent the better part of the next two hours interrogating the unfortunate Mr. Drayson about his whereabouts, his daily practices and the sad history of his family. I listened but had nothing to add to the proceedings. To my ear it sounded as if Drayson was exactly as he seemed to be: A man whose life, through no fault of his own, had been marked by tragedy. A father surviving as best he could in the somewhat desperate hope that his daughter’s health might be restored. As we left the Drayson residence I saw Holmes’ scowl had returned.

  “Baker Street.” Holmes informed the cabbie curtly. His eyes were distant as he considered the problem before him. As we were dropped before the familiar door of the 221B lodgings Holmes impatiently pushed past me, hurried up the seventeen steps to where his pipes and rough-cut tobacco waited. By the time I had ascended the stairs pungent smoke was already thickening the atmosphere.

  For the remainder of the day Holmes smoked his pipes, the great engine of his brain grinding away at the puzzle. As night approached he removed his ash filled pipe, grimaced and exclaimed, “It won’t do Watson, it simply will not do!”

  “Perhaps we should return to the asylum,” I suggested. “Interview more of the staff.”

  “In case I overlooked something significant!” In another man’s mouth such a statement might sound reasonable. Holmes spat it like a curse. My friend was not accustomed to doubting his own formidable abilities. Holmes shook his head. “No need for that Watson, we still have fresh earth to turn. You recall Miss Drayson mentioned a Mr. Willingham.”

  I nodded. “She suggested he would be the next victim but not how we would find him.”