Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Campbell, Jeff; Prepolec, Charles

  So it was that Scotland Yard found us — in the centre of a bloody room that stank of gore and spent ammunition. It was indeed fortunate that we were known to the officers of the Yard. Had Holmes and I not been so familiar I do not doubt we would have found ourselves locked in a cell to await charges of murder.

  I told the police Willingham had been attacked by a large, foreign-looking man with an uncommonly wide sword. Willingham, I explained, was dead when we entered the room. Upon our arrival the attacker knocked Holmes to the ground, giving me time to draw my revolver and fire six shots into the brute. The assassin screamed and left by way of the window. Rather than give chase, I remained behind to tend to Holmes.

  “Watson.” Holmes shook his bandaged head as he listened to my tale. “Your aim is slipping.”

  “So it would appear,” I agreed. Holmes listened to the account I gave to Scotland Yard without comment or question. Nor did he make any inquiries as we journeyed back to Baker Street. Very quickly the matter became just another case. Other crimes took Holmes’ fancy. A letter of gratitude arrived from the much-improved Catherine Drayson. Another grateful missive from her father informed us of her release from the asylum. Such tokens were nothing new to Holmes and, as was his custom, he ignored them. Holmes quickly put the case behind him. However, as you might suppose, I have thought of the matter often.

  It is not my custom to hide the truth from my friends. Sherlock Holmes is dauntless in the face of horrors which chill my blood. Murder and violence, the screams of the innocent and the doings of evil men, all part of Holmes’ environment and as natural to him as water to a fish. Yet, as courageous as he undoubtedly is, Holmes is not without his personal demons. He lives a life built upon small but unshakable truths, upon what is and is not possible. Catherine Drayson and her savage partner disappeared from Willingham’s apartment. In Sherlock Holmes’ world such things cannot be.

  Sometimes I assure myself I acted to protect my friend. When confronted with a horror not of this world, I feared his skills, as a detective, would be rendered useless. Robbed of the very foundations of his courage, how would Holmes react? Such an event could well push him back into the drug usage we had struggled so hard to put behind him. The reality of other worlds, of beings such as the Melvaris and their unexplainable magic, seemed a truth which might unravel Holmes. A revelation capable of tainting the detective’s skills with doubt, poisoning his future work. At such times I am convinced my response was entirely appropriate and that my actions were those of a loyal friend.

  Yet there are other times. Late at night, when sleep is inexplicably elusive, my thoughts stray into the shadowy realms of doubt and I wonder. Were my actions those of a friend or was it simple cowardice? If Holmes had witnessed the truth, had seen the creature sent to kill Willingham, where would he be now? In his own way Holmes has always been a hunter of terrible monsters. A man who exposed secrets. Given the choice would he remain here, solving crimes in London, or would he venture forth to explore that world under the red sun? I find myself reaching for the answer but it eludes me still, eclipsed by another, more troubling question. If Holmes were to leave this world, would I follow?

  Merridew of Abominable Memory

  Merridew of Abominable Memory

  by Chris Roberson

  The old man reclined on a chaise-longue, warmed by the rays of the rising sun which slanted through the windows on the eastern wall. In the garden below, he could see the other patients and convalescents already at work tending the greenery with varying degrees of attention. The gardens of the Holloway Sanatorium were the responsibility of the patients, at least those tasks which didn’t involve sharp implements, and the nurses and wardens saw to it that the grounds were immaculate. Not that the patients ever complained, of course. Tending a hedge or planting a row of flowers was serene and contemplative compared to the stresses which had lead most of the patients to take refuge here, dirty fingernails and suntanned necks notwithstanding.

  No one had asked John Watson to help tend the garden, but then, he could hardly blame them. Entering the middle years of his eighth decade of life, his days of useful manual labor were far behind him, even if he wasn’t plagued by ancient injuries in leg and shoulder. But it was not infirmities of the body that had led John here to Virginia Water in Surrey; rather, it was a certain infirmity of the mind.

  John’s problem was memory, or memories to be precise. The dogged persistence of some, the fleeting loss of others. Increasingly in recent months, he had found it difficult to recall the present moment, having trouble remembering where he was, and what was going on around him. At the same time, though, recollections of events long past were so strong, so vivid, that they seemed to overwhelm him. Even at the best of times, when he felt in complete control of his faculties, he still found that the memories of a day forty years past were more vivid than his recollections of the week previous.

  John had been content to look upon these bouts of forgetfulness as little more than occasional lapses, and no cause for concern. When visiting London that spring, though, he had managed to get so befuddled in a fugue that he’d wandered round to Baker Street, fully expecting his old friend to be in at the rooms they once shared. The present tenant, a detective himself as it happened, was charitable enough about the episode, but it was clear that Blake had little desire to be bothered again by a confused old graybearded pensioner.

  After the episode in London, John had begun to suspect that there was no other explanation for it than that he was suffering from the onset of dementia, and that the lapses he suffered would become increasingly less occasional in the days to come. In the hopes of finding treatment, keeping the condition from worsening if improvement were out of the question, he checked himself into Holloway for evaluation.

  Warmed by the morning sun, John found himself recalling the weeks spent in Peshawar after the Battle of Maiwand, near mindless in a haze of enteric fever, something about the commingling of warmth and mental confusion bringing those days to mind.

  His reverie was interrupted by the arrival of an orderly, sent to fetch John for his morning appointment with the staff physician, the young Doctor Rhys.

  As the orderly led him through the halls of Holloway, they passed other convalescents not equal to the task of tending the emerald gardens outside. There were some few hundred patients in the facility, all of them being treated for mental distress of one sort or another, whether brought on by domestic or business troubles, by worry or overwork. Not a few of them had addled their own senses with spirits, which brought to John’s mind his elder brother Henry, Jr., who had died of drink three decades past.

  There were others, though, who had seen their senses addled through no fault of their own. Some of the patients were young men, not yet out of their third decade, who seemed never to have recovered from the things they did and saw in the trenches of the Great War. Their eyes had a haunted look, as they stared unseeing into the middle distance.

  John well remembered being that young. If he closed his eyes, he could recall the sounds and smells of the Battle of Maiwand as though it had occurred yesterday. As he walked along beside the orderly, he reached up and tenderly probed his left shoulder, the sensation of the jezail bullet striking suddenly prominent in his thoughts.

  Finally, they reached Doctor Rhys’s study, and found the young man waiting there for them. Once John was safely ensconced in a well-upholstered chair, the orderly retreated, closing the door behind him.

  “And now, Mr. Watson, how does the day find you, hmm?”

  “Doctor,” John said, his voice sounding strained and ancient in his own ears. He cleared his throat, setting off a coughing jag.

  “Yes?” Rhys replied, eyebrow raised.

  “Doctor Watson.”

  Rhys nodded vigorously, wearing an apologetic expression. “Quite right, my apologies. How are you today, then, Dr. Watson?”

  John essayed a shrug. “No better than yesterday, one supposes, and little worse.”

&nbs
p; Rhys had a little notebook open on his knee, and jotted down a note. “The staff informs me that you have not availed yourself of many of our facilities, in the course of your stay.”

  It was a statement, though John knew it for a question. “No,” he answered, shaking his head.

  In the sanatorium, there was more than enough to occupy one’s day. Those seeking exercise could use the cricket pitch, badminton court, and swimming pool, while those of a less strenuous bent could retire to the snooker room and social club. In his days at Holloway, though, John had been content to do little but sit in an eastern facing room in the mornings, in a western facing room in the afternoons, sitting always in the sunlight. It was as though he were a flower seeking out as many of the sun’s rays as possible in the brief time remaining to him. The less charitably minded might even accuse him of seeking out the light through some fear of shadows, since by night the electric lights in his room were never extinguished, and when he slept it was in a red-lidded darkness, never black.

  “Tell me, Dr. Watson,” Rhys continued, glancing up from his notes, “have you given any further thought to our discussion yesterday?”

  John sighed. Rhys was an earnest young man, who had studied with Freud in Vienna, and who was fervent in his belief that science and medicine could cure all ills. When John first arrived in Holloway weeks before, he had taken this passion as encouraging, but as the days wore on and his condition failed to improve, his own aging enthusiasms had begun to wane.

  Had Watson ever been so young, so convinced of the unassailable power of knowledge? He remembered working in the surgery at St. Bartholomew’s, scarcely past his twentieth birthday, his degree from the University of London still years in his future. The smell of the surgery filled his nostrils, and he squinted against the glare of gaslights reflecting off polished tiles, the sound of bone saws rasping in his ears.

  “Dr. Watson?”

  John blinked, to find Rhys’ hand on his knee, a concerned look on his face.

  “I’m sorry,” John managed. “My mind … drifted.”

  Rhys nodded sympathetically. “Memory is a pernicious thing, Dr. Watson. But it is still a wonder and a blessing. After our meeting yesterday I consulted my library, and found some interesting notes on the subject. Are you familiar with Pliny’s Naturalis Historia?”

  John dipped his head in an abbreviated nod. “Though my Latin was hardly equal to the task in my days at Wellington.”

  Rhys flipped back a few pages in his moleskin-bound notebook. “Pliny cites several historical cases of prodigious memory. He mentions the Persian king Cyrus, who could recall the name of each soldier in his army, and Mithridates Eupator, who administered his empire’s laws in twenty-two languages, and Metrodorus, who could faithfully repeat anything he had heard only once.”

  John managed a wan smile. “It is a fascinating list, doctor, but I’m afraid that my problem involves the loss of memory, not its retention.”

  Rhys raised a finger. “Ah, but I suspect that the two are simply different facets of the same facility. I would argue, Dr. Watson, that nothing is ever actually forgotten, in the conventional sense. It is either hidden away, or never remembered at all.”

  “Now I am afraid you have lost me.”

  “Freud teaches that repression is the act of expelling painful thoughts and memories from our conscious awareness by hiding them in the subconscious. If you were having difficulty recalling your distant past, I might consider repression a culprit. But your problem is of a different nature, in that your past memories are pristine and acute, but your present recollections are transient and thin.”

  John chuckled, somewhat humorlessly. “I remember well enough that I described my own condition to you in virtually the same terms upon my arrival.”

  Rhys raised his hands in a gesture of apology. “Forgive me, I tend to forget your own medical credentials, and have a bad habit of extemporizing. But tell me, doctor, what do you know of Freud’s theories concerning the reasons dreams are often forgotten on waking?”

  John shook his head. “More than the man on the Clapham omnibus, I suppose, but considerably less than you, I hazard to guess.”

  “Freud contends that we are wont soon to forget a large number of sensations and perceptions from dreams because they are too feeble, without any substantial emotional weight. The weak images of dreams are driven from our thoughts by the stronger images of our waking lives.”

  “I remember my dreams no better or worse than the next man.”

  “But it seems to me, based on our conversations here, that the images of your past are stronger and more vivid than those of your present circumstances. The celebrated cases in which you took part, the adventures you shared. How could the drab, gray days of your present existence compare?”

  John rubbed at his lower lip with a dry, wrinkled fingertip, his expression thoughtful. “So you think it is not dementia which addles my thoughts, but that I forget my present because my past is so vivid in my mind?”

  Rhys made a dismissive gesture. “Dementia is merely a name applied to maladies poorly understood. The categories of mental distress understood in the last century — mania, hysteria, melancholia, dementia — are merely overly convenient categories into which large numbers of unrelated conditions might be dumped. More a symptom than a cause.” He closed his notebook and leaned forward, regarding John closely. “I think, Dr. Watson, that you forget because you are too good at remembering.”

  Rhys fell silent, waiting for a response.

  John was thoughtful. He closed his eyes, his thoughts following a chain of association, memory leading to memory, from this drab and gray present to his more vivid, more adventure-filled past.

  “Dr. Watson?” Rhys touched his knee. “Are you drifting again?”

  John smiled somewhat sadly, and shook his head, eyes still closed. Opening them, he met Rhys’ gaze. “No, doctor. Merely remembering. Recalling one of those ‘celebrated cases’ you mention, though perhaps not as celebrated as many others. It involved a man who could not forget, and who once experienced a memory so vivid that no other things could be recalled ever after.”

  We have spoken about my old friend Sherlock Holmes, John Watson began. It has been some years since I last saw him, and at this late date I have trouble remembering just when. I saw little of Holmes after he retired to Sussex, only the occasional weekend visit. But as hazy as those last visits are in my mind, if I close my eyes I can see as vividly as this morning’s sunlight those days when Victoria still sat upon the throne, and when Holmes and I still shared rooms at No. 221B Baker Street.

  The case I’m speaking of came to us in the spring of 1889, some weeks before I met the woman who was to become the second Mrs. Watson, God rest her, when Holmes and I were once again living together in Baker Street. The papers each day were filled with stories regarding the Dockside Dismemberer. He is scarcely remembered today, overshadowed by other killers who live larger in the popular imagination, but at the time the Dismemberer was the name on everyone’s lips.

  At first, it had been thought that the Ripper might again be prowling the streets. Holmes and I, of course, knew full well what had become of him. But like the Ripper before him, the Dismemberer seemed to become more vicious, more brutal, with each new killing. By the time Inspector Lestrade reluctantly engaged Holmes’ services in the pursuit of the Dismemberer, there had been three victims found, each more brutally savaged than the last. On the morning in which the man of prodigious memory came into our lives, the papers carried news of yet another, the Dismemberer’s fourth victim.

  By that time, we had been on the case for nearly a fortnight, but were no nearer a resolution than we’d been at the beginning. The news of still another victim put Holmes in a foul mood, and I had cause to worry after his health. Holmes was never melancholic except when he had no industry to occupy his thoughts, but to pursue such a gruesome killer for so many days without any measurable success had worn on my friend’s good spirits.

&n
bsp; “Blast it!” Holmes was folded in his favorite chair, his knees tucked up to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around his legs. “And I assume this latest is no more identifiable than the last?”

  I consulted the news article again, and shook my head. “There is to be an inquest this morning, but as yet there is no indication that the authorities have any inkling who the victim might be. Only that he was male, like the others.”

  Holmes glowered. “And doubtless savaged, as well, features ruined.” He shook his head, angrily. “The first bodies attributed to this so-called ‘Dismemberer’ had been killed and mutilated, with the apparent intention of hiding their identities. These more recent victims, though, appear to have been killed by someone who took a positive delight in the act itself.”

  I nodded. We’d had opportunity to examine the previous three victims, or rather to examine what remained of them, and Holmes’ assessment was my own. Even the Ripper had only approached such degradations in his final, and most gruesome killing.

  I turned the pages of the paper, searching out some bit of news which might raise my friend’s spirits, or distract him for the moment, if nothing else. It was on the sixth page that I found what I was seeking.

  “Ah, here is an interesting morsel, Holmes,” I said as casually as I was able. “It is an obituary notice of an Argentinean who, if the story is to be believed, was rather remarkable. Ireneo Funes, dead at the age of twenty-one, is said to have had a memory of such singular character that he could recall anything to which it was exposed. Witnesses are quoted as saying that Funes could recall each day of his life in such detail that the recollection itself took an entire day simply to process.”

  Holmes still glowered, but there was a lightening to his eyes that suggested my gambit had met with some small success. “Have I ever told you about Merridew, Watson?” I allowed that he hadn’t. “He was a stage performer I once saw, while traveling in America as a younger man. A mentalist performing under the name ‘Merridew the Memorialist,’ he appeared to have total recall. I myself saw him read two pages at a time, one with each eye, and then a quarter of an hour later recite with perfect accuracy texts he had glimpsed for only a moment.”