Sherlock Holmes and the Servants of Hell

by Clive Barker

  She regarded Holmes and then myself in turn. I felt a little like an animal at the zoo under her scrutiny; or, more accurately, a creature about to be dissected by a scientist. “You’re here about your missing brother, I gather,” I said to him, holding up my notebook and pencil – silently asking his permission to jot down details. He nodded twice, indicating yes to both.

  “And you once worked for some time as a clerk in a counting house, did you not?” said Holmes. It wasn’t really a question. They rarely were.

  Cotton looked shocked, then his face broke into another grin. “Why, yes! Yes, I did. I would ask how you knew, but you are Sherlock Holmes, after all.”

  “Well, I’ll ask, then,” I said, more for my own satisfaction than anything.

  Holmes closed his eyes, before opening them again and obliging me. “Your stooping frame was my first clue, Mr Cotton, developed from years hunched over a desk doing painstaking work, checking and re-checking. And though you have no doubt risen in the ranks since your five-year apprenticeship, you will never be able to fully lose the ink staining of your fingers from the meticulous keeping of ledgers in the court hand; somewhat old-fashioned in this day and age, but then your profession tends to be so. Coupled with your general colouring and slight squint, it was really no hardship to come to the one and only conclusion.”

  I thought Cotton was going to applaud at this point, but I had seen the trick before – indeed, I had noticed one or two of those clues myself. “Remarkable,” said the man. “Isn’t it, my love?”

  Mrs Cotton said nothing, she merely offered the tightest of smiles.

  “I did indeed end up in a more senior position, working for the firm of Henderson and Sons.”

  “And such a position would most likely have come about through a recommendation, say from a family member,” Holmes went on.

  “My father,” Cotton replied.

  “Who I would venture was a man of means after such a career, but wanted you to make your own way – starting from the ground up.”

  “Exactly, exactly,” said Cotton, eyes turning downwards and brushing the carpet. “He passed away not long ago, a widower since his early fifties.”

  “Our condolences,” I chipped in, knowing that Holmes would never offer them. People lived, people died – the mysteries they created during the period in-between were of greater interest to him.

  Cotton looked up again, his eyes moist. “Thank you, gentlemen. That’s very much appreciated. He has left us both well taken care of.”

  “Yourself and your brother,” said Holmes.

  “Indeed. The house, for example, where we set off from this morning, is now in both our names. It is a beautiful property, Mr Holmes – my family home – and one I should very much like to take up residence in permanently with my good lady, for it suits our needs perfectly. If Francis is agreeable, that is.”

  “Francis being your brother,” I asked for clarity’s sake and Laurence Cotton nodded once more. “Your missing brother.”

  “If he was simply missing, then I would not have come to enlist your help. For most of my life I have never really known where my sibling was, nor what he was doing... and perhaps that is all to the best.”

  “So you and your brother didn’t get along?” I enquired.

  “I would not say that; in fact, I think a part of me has always envied his freedom. He was the one who went off on his travels, who went exploring. Who turned his back on a conventional life – much to the disappointment of our parents, who nevertheless continued to love and think well of him.”

  It was in that moment I knew exactly why this man admired the stories of our adventures so much. Here was a fellow who lived his life vicariously through others. Who had a stable – some might even call boring – life, but lacked the courage to do anything else.

  “No,” Cotton continued. “It is the way in which he disappeared that is the most curious thing, and a puzzle I thought you gentlemen might appreciate.”

  Holmes leaned forward in his chair, steepling his fingers and urging Cotton to continue. “But please, do not leave a single detail out. Everything is relevant. Even the smallest aspect might be of the greatest significance.”

  “As I say, we returned to the family home with an aim to move in – compensating my brother for his half, of course, when he next made an appearance. He has never really been interested in the property market, Mr Holmes – not the kind of man to settle down in the one place. Nor with any one woman.”

  I noticed Mrs Cotton’s lips pursing at that remark. Distaste at the absent man’s appetites, I thought to myself, or something more?

  “I am sure he would be willing... would have been, at any rate. Imagine our surprise, then, when we arrived back and found that Francis had already been there very recently. We’d missed him only by a day or so, apparently.”

  “He’d left by the time you returned?” I queried.

  “Yes... no...” Cotton shook his head. “Not ‘left’ exactly. As I said in my telegram, he has vanished.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said honestly.

  “Watson,” Holmes said, rounding on me, “do let the man speak!” It was not uncommon for my friend to become exasperated with me during interviews, or at other times, come to that, but there was a brusqueness to his tone then that I had rarely seen before. A desperation to get to the facts of the case, to find out what we were dealing with and let nothing stand in his way. It was an augur of things to come, as I would later discover to my cost. I gave my friend a pointed look, but he either missed it or chose to ignore it. “Mr Cotton, pray continue.”

  Stunned, Laurence Cotton shook his head, and nodded again. “Since the death of our father, the house has been in the sole care of his housekeeper, Miss Ida Williams. Before that there was a small staff of servants to see to his needs, but he was always most fond of, and most trusted, Miss Williams. Now, before you say it, I know exactly what you are thinking. If she is in need of anything that might require a man’s touch, she calls upon our neighbour, Mr Cecil Barbery – family friend and former groundskeeper to the Duke of Norfolk. Cecil also used to help my father with the gardens during the Spring and Summer months. Though retired, he still retains his strength – built through years of working in nature.”

  “I assure you I was thinking no such thing,” Holmes replied. “I have known many capable women in my time, some who would put a man to shame in every department.” And with this, his eyes drifted towards Mrs Cotton, returning her earlier scrutiny. Ever since Holmes came up against a certain Miss Irene Adler, he has never underestimated anyone of the feminine persuasion – in fact, I suspect he even admired her somewhat for outsmarting him.

  Laurence Cotton coughed, partly I suspect to break up the tension that had formed in the room. “Of course. Nevertheless, you will soon see why I bring the matter up. We had barely set foot through the door when Miss Williams, in a state of some distress, rushed up to us and reported what had transpired. My brother, it would seem, returned home quite unexpectedly, and with no explanation whatsoever took himself off upstairs to the disused attic room, eschewing any food or drink that Miss Williams was kind enough to offer. He had with him a small leather Gladstone bag, she says, and he asked specifically not to be disturbed; even secured the door behind him. Oh, I should also mention that it can only be locked or unlocked from the inside.

  “After several hours, Miss Williams was roused when she heard a terrible scream coming from upstairs. But when she went to the door and tried it, she found it was still locked. She called through the wood, but no-one answered. It was at this point she headed off to get Cecil, who returned and broke down the door. It was made from the strongest oak, you see, Mr Holmes. Miss Williams, as competent as she is in other departments, could never have gained entrance alone.”

  Holmes suddenly rose, causing all of us to start. He took out a cigarette from the silver holder in his pocket, which he waved around to offer the rest of us – with no takers. Then he bent and lit i
t in the fire, standing again to blow out a cloud of smoke, momentarily masking his face. “Tell me, what did they find inside?” Holmes asked finally.

  “Well,” Cotton replied, “that’s just it, they found... nothing.”

  “The room was completely empty?” Holmes demanded.

  Cotton nodded. “Save for Francis’ empty bag, and a few candles that had gone out and been knocked over, yes. There wasn’t anything really in there to start with – as I mentioned, Father had not used it in years.”

  “Vanished indeed...” Holmes said under his breath. “Are there any windows in the room?” he asked, after taking another drag on his cigarette. “Any way for Francis to have made his exit?”

  “A very small window, certainly not big enough for a grown man to climb through – and my brother is no contortionist. It is one of the reasons why the room was left alone, because it was so dark up there. Mother always used to say it had a funny atmosphere, as if it were haunted.”

  “There are no such thing as ghosts, Mr Cotton!” Holmes pointed at him with the cigarette.

  “No, of course not,” said the man, shaking his head for a change. “I am simply telling you what my mother believed. It was more likely to be damp.”

  Holmes flashed a tight smile of his own.

  “If I might say something,” I interjected.

  “By all means,” said Holmes, his earlier admonishment completely forgotten about.

  “The housekeeper... Miss Williams. She did leave the house unattended while she fetched help. Could your brother not have left then?”

  Laurence shook his head once more, this time with complete conviction. “She was gone only a few moments. At any rate, if he had done so, the door would have been unlocked when she and Cecil returned, surely?”

  Cotton had a point, but there again I had also seen Holmes himself escape from a prison once, from a locked cell. I couldn’t help stating, “Stranger things have happened.”

  “And what of this friend, the neighbour Mr Barbery? What did he make of the situation?” asked Holmes.

  Laurence let out a breath. “He believed it to be a prank on the part of my brother. He still remembers the days when Francis was a boy and used to tie his shoelaces together as a joke. I think he managed even to persuade Miss Williams this was the case. That was one of the reasons she did not go to the police, because she feared they would not believe her either.”

  “She is most likely correct in that assumption,” Holmes informed him. “And as far as I can see, no real crime has been committed, save perhaps for the disruption caused to Mr Barbery.”

  “Quite so. However, by the time we returned home, she was again in a most agitated state – crying and asking over and over what could have happened to Francis.” He looked across at his wife. “We did not have the faintest idea how to respond to her, as you can probably imagine.”

  “And that is what prompted you to contact me so early this morning,” Holmes replied.

  “That and my wife’s insistence something needed to be done about the situation.” He continued to look at Mrs Cotton, offering her a reassuring smile now. This was a man who would give his spouse anything she wanted, I felt certain – the woman only had to ask. “She has never really cared for my brother, have you, my dear? Not since meeting him at the wedding some four years ago. Juliet would like to see the matter settled, so that we will not have any... undue complications later on after having moved in.”

  “Understandable,” said I.

  “And this would be your second marriage,” said Holmes, blowing out more smoke. Once more, it was not a question but a statement of fact.

  Both parties turned and looked at my friend then in unison. “How did you...” Cotton shook his head, remembering the earlier explanation about his job, and just accepted Holmes’ deduction (Holmes later told me privately that it was all in the way Cotton had introduced his wife, the hesitation almost an apology to his previous bride and the overcompensation of saying the current Mrs Cotton was ‘lovely’ to make up for this, not to mention his eagerness to please his bride; all things that I have to admit passed me by). “Yes, that is correct.”

  “Your previous wife having passed away,” Holmes stated, then explained this one without having to even be asked. “The way you talked of your father’s dilemma, it revealed a bond – and shared understanding – beyond mere father and son.”

  Cotton looked down again, another effort to avoid showing he was close to tears. He sniffed and looked up, looked over once more at his wife and took her hand, patting that instead of her knee. “Yes, some years ago. But I have been fortunate enough to be blessed again.”

  “It must have been a trying time, especially with a child to raise,” said Holmes. “You must have envied your brother his freedom all the more because of that.”

  Laurence Cotton stood sharply, dropping his wife’s hand. I thought for a moment he was going to lunge at Holmes (if he had, he would have been the loser) but then his breathing slowed down and his body relaxed.

  “Please accept my sincerest apologies. I assure you, sir, I meant no offence,” said my friend, extending his hand for a second time to indicate that Cotton should sit, which he eventually did. And of course he hadn’t meant any offence, because Holmes had been testing this man – to see if there was a subject that would get his dander up.

  “No, it is I who should apologise, Mr Holmes. I did not mean to... But my wife, my late wife, and Kirsten – they have no bearing on all this.”

  “Perhaps you did not hear me earlier. Everything is relevant, Mr Cotton.”

  “Holmes...” said I, and he relented.

  “I... I did my best,” said Cotton without any prompting. “But after Helen passed away, it was difficult – even with help. My own mother had passed away, Father was growing older, and there was work...” The more I watched him, the more it seemed to me like Cotton was in a confessional, pouring out his sins. “In the end, even though I loved her more than words can... In the end, it was better that she go to be with her other grandparents, to finish her schooling.”

  “In Sweden,” Holmes added for him. Cotton stared, open-mouthed, one final time. My friend stubbed out his cigarette, facing front, and put his hands in his pockets. “With your wife being of Swedish descent. Your daughter’s name, Mr Cotton: a clear indication. And your late wife’s own, a shortening of Helena, yes?”

  Cotton nodded. “But the time is fast approaching when she will be able not only to visit, but to come and live with us for a little while. So that she might get to know her loving stepmother, and I might have my family with me again.” He remembered the hand he had let go of and reached for it, but Mrs Cotton had since moved it out of the way. “Another reason why it is so important that we make the house on Lodovico Street our home. It will be a fresh start for everyone.” Then Cotton looked at his wife with pleading eyes, as if to reassure her all would be well.

  “But first, you need to know where your brother is,” said Holmes. “And we shall endeavour to help you with your mystery. The room: it remains untouched?”

  “It does,” Cotton assured him.

  “Then I would ask you to return to the house and prepare. We shall follow shortly, and will need to speak with both Miss Williams and Mr Barbery, after a cursory inspection of the room.”

  With that, we said goodbye for the time being to the Cottons – Laurence shaking our hands in turn (it was a very weak handshake, I have to confess) and Mrs Cotton merely tipping her head to us.

  I could understand Holmes’ desire to take the case more now that I had heard the full extent of it – a locked room mystery would always appeal to him – but still could not see what made it so special. I do not think even Holmes himself knew at that time, but we would both be enlightened soon enough.

  And we would come to learn that the Cottons were only the tip of the iceberg. That their story, their problem, was just a tiny part of the puzzle.

  A puzzle that went back centuries and was a thre
at to all of mankind.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A Faint Smell of Vanilla

  THE DWELLING LAURENCE Cotton had told us about was indeed pleasant enough – a three-level brown affair with white window frames – but I would not have said it was particularly beautiful. But then, it had been his home growing up, and he was returning to it, with all the cherished memories that held.

  If anything, I felt there was a distinct air of shabbiness about the place, which would have been in keeping with an elderly man like Laurence’s father living with only a skeleton staff, and subsequently the housekeeper Miss Williams alone there to see to things. I could, however, see potential in the place for a family – though I did not think that it would be the most happy of environments for teenage daughter Kirsten to move into.

  Holmes’ thoughts on the subject, which he shared with me upon the Cottons’ departure from Baker Street, as he gathered what he might need to begin our investigation, and as we travelled in our cab to that destination, chimed with my own on the subject.

  “That woman would rather throw herself off London Bridge than become a ‘loving stepmother’ to Cotton’s child,” he said bluntly.

  “I concur,” said I. “More like a wicked stepmother from some sort of hideous fairytale. Did you notice the slight tic as he talked about the child’s mother, and then Kirsten herself?”

  “Of course,” snapped Holmes, insulted. “It was obvious how much it pained her to be reminded about that. Almost as much as it pained Mr Cotton to part with his daughter, I should think – choosing instead to work hard and try to establish a life here that she could be a part of later on; a comfortable standard of living that they might enjoy together.”

  “Inheriting his father’s home would definitely help reunite them,” I pointed out. “Except in the meantime, Laurence met and fell in love with the second Mrs Cotton.”