Sherlock Holmes vs. Cthulhu

by Lois H. Gresh

  “Whatever you want,” I said, “as long as you don’t damage the dens or the tram machine building. I don’t care who meets with a premature demise, but promise me, no fires, Timmy. Fires could ruin my dens.”

  The boy nodded, his face bright with excitement.

  “Now. Where’s your father?” I asked.

  “Me dad? ’E’s in the den two doors down. Butchers meetin’, ’e tol’ me.”

  Dorsey’s gang, the Butchers, had been named for their leader’s trade, though the rest of them had no occupation other than thieving and extortion. I stood and took a final puff from the cigarette.

  “All right. I need your father and his mates,” I said. “Can you get them for me, Timmy?”

  The boy leapt from the sofa and darted to the door. He was about to yank the door open and race off when he turned back.

  “What you gonna ’ave ’em do?” he asked.

  “They’re the Butchers, aren’t they?”

  I stared evenly at him while my right shoe ground the cigarette butt into the dirt.

  “Well, that’s what they’re going to do, Timmy,” I said.

  16

  DR. JOHN WATSON

  Pall Mall, London

  We made our way down Pall Mall to an unmarked door near the Carlton. This was not my first time at the Diogenes Club, but even so Holmes touched a forefinger to his lips. Silence was the creed of the Diogenes Club. Three utterances, and a man would be thrown out.

  Holmes and I stepped into a short hall that smelled of cigars and leather. From here, I glimpsed part of the luxurious smoking room, comfortably furnished, with a fire burning merrily. The publications that lined the mahogany bookshelves touched upon all realms of science and medicine, as well as government affairs and history. The men reading that material were dressed in suits custom-made by England’s finest tailors, their cigars imported, the wines superb, and the waiters as impeccable as the butlers and footmen of England’s grandest estates.

  Holmes waved me on towards the Stranger’s Room while he went to find his brother.

  Thankful that my trousers were constructed of heavy wool, I perched on a splintered stool by the window overlooking Pall Mall. To my right was a chair large enough to accommodate Mycroft, and to my left was a tattered Gothic chair. Heavy with elaborate carving, the chair reminded me of those in Professor Henry Fitzgerald’s drawing room, where I’d seen swirling tentacles crawling along the armrests. I shuddered to remember that room: the paintings of multi-limbed creatures in colors I’d never seen before, the silver trays thick with mistletoe, the portent of dread that clung to the air.

  I had felt that same dread as we’d walked the streets of London today. It hung in dark folds, blotting out all sunlight and frivolity. It was a blight. We were being attacked by creatures in the river, and we were electroshocking our brains, perhaps out of hopelessness and fear.

  Footsteps left a soft carpet and hit hard wood. I realized that I was no longer alone in the Stranger’s Room. Sherlock Holmes and his brother, Mycroft, were staring at me.

  Holmes nodded a greeting and reclined in the Gothic chair, his body slouched, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. I remembered from previous visits to the Diogenes Club how he hated that chair, and who wouldn’t?

  Mycroft was very different from his brother in terms of physique. Though they were of near-equal height, Mycroft was double the bulk of his younger brother. Everything about him was enormous: his cheeks, his neck, his stomach, even his fingers. Exercise for Mycroft consisted of walking a few minutes from his rooms on Pall Mall to his office in Whitehall and back each day.

  Wheezing, he sank into the oversized chair, which wheezed along with him. His cheeks flushed as he settled, and the chair groaned.

  “Most uncomfortable,” he said. “Now, let us discuss the matter at hand as quickly as possible, then retreat into the club for our repast. I’m hungry, gentlemen, and it’s already twenty to seven.”

  Holmes had mentioned to me some time ago that his brother remained in the club from a quarter to five until twenty to eight each day. Due to our visit, his evening meal was overdue, and he had but one hour left in which to eat. I could only imagine the amount he consumed.

  Holmes shifted his body, then shifted again. Finally, he hitched himself up so that his back was stiff against the chair, and he re-crossed his legs. When he spoke, it was in a low tone, and I had to hunch forward to hear him.

  “Despite the fact that we are allowed to speak in this chamber,” he said, “I would say that the Stranger’s Room is less hospitable than the other rooms in the club.”

  “We do not encourage strangers, nor their chatter,” Mycroft said, glowering. “And do keep your voice down, Sherlock.”

  Holmes pursed his lips, then steepled his fingers beneath his chin. He leaned forward and trained his sharp eyes on Mycroft.

  “You have my full attention,” he whispered—very softly. “Pray, begin.”

  “I suggested in my note that you visit the dens of Whitechapel today, and I see from your faces that you have done so. Dr. Watson, what did you notice about the people of the East End?” Mycroft asked in a seemingly offhand way. His eyes had a misty cast as if clouds suffused his thoughts. Yet no clouds hampered Mycroft’s thoughts. Rather, he was in his own world, his mind grinding through problems, sorting information, cranking solutions.

  At that moment, my mind faltered. Where it had been clear moments before, now it wandered. Mycroft’s question was a simple one, yet I stumbled in answering it.

  “Watson?” Holmes tilted his head, eyed me with concern.

  “People are… I am… The people of Whitechapel are… They are confused… as am I.” My voice broke off. I felt my face flush. I raised both palms to my cheeks, hoping to hide them long enough for the flush to disappear.

  “The good doctor is temporarily unwell.” Holmes addressed his brother. “You noticed the bandage on his forehead, of course?”

  “I did,” Mycroft said drily, “but it does not relate to Dr. Watson’s mental state. I need not point out to you, my dear Sherlock, that a head injury that costs a man his mind is not treated with a small bandage.”

  “Nothing—no injury—has cost me my mind,” I objected.

  “Yes, and so, we return to the question, an elementary one. What have you noticed about the people of Whitechapel, in your time among them?” Mycroft repeated, reminding me with a finger to his lips to keep my voice low.

  “You refer to the folk who are behaving unusually in that area?” I whispered. “They stagger about the place as if they have been smoking opium or imbibing alcohol, but I do not believe all of the affected wretches have done so. Some of them seem to have lost the power of speech. I believe these people have been reduced to a state of mental numbness. I suspect from their actions that many of them see and hear… things that are not there.”

  “Suspect?” Mycroft prompted.

  “I am fairly certain,” I answered, thinking of my own condition. I already suffered from hallucinations. I already heard nonexistent voices screeching and chanting bizarre words.

  “They are prone to addiction, for example to the Eshockers of the dens and to the Old Ones Serum,” Holmes said.

  “Why are you fairly certain, Dr. Watson?” Mycroft asked. “Are you seeing and hearing things?”

  I hesitated. Dare I expose my malady, my secret, to Holmes’s brother?

  “Tell him,” Holmes said. “You can trust Mycroft as well as you trust me, and he needs to know how pervasive this problem is.”

  “I have suffered visual hallucinations and have heard very strange sounds. Both come and go…” I began. “My profound hope is that whatever ails me is temporary, a brain infection that has caused some visual and auditory effects that will clear in time.”

  With the back of my hand, I wiped the thin veil of sweat from my forehead. A chill swept down my body.

  “You fear that your brain ‘infection,’ as you put it, will not clear,” Mycroft com
mented drily. “You are a practitioner, and I might add, a scholar of medicine, Dr. Watson. You, of all people, know that we have no cure for many infections. And—” here he cast an apologetic glance at Holmes—“your particular infection is something new and unknown, something vile that has spread across London rapidly, cutting across all levels of society. A friend of mine, a dear fellow, has fallen prey to the Eshocker dens, and like you, Dr. Watson, he is not himself. He sees things. He hears things.”

  Holmes cleared his throat. I felt his hand on my shoulder, and I blinked at him as the moisture trickled beneath my shirt. The chills were due to fear, I told myself, and to my embarrassment at revealing what I perceived as my deficiencies.

  “Dr. Watson has been nowhere that I have not gone,” Holmes said, “and I am, as yet, uninfected, a word I use loosely in this context. I remain confident that Dr. Watson will pull out of his illness in due course. As for your friend, I pray for his rapid recovery, as well.” His tone sharpened and he abruptly switched the subject, for which I was immensely grateful. “Mycroft,” he said, “tell us what you know and how you suggest we proceed. You requested my help, and I am here.”

  “You told me the other day of your recent case of the red-headed man who was hired to transcribe the encyclopedia,” Mycroft began. “Your handling of that case was admirable, Sherlock.”

  To Mycroft, Holmes’s deductions were merely admirable. To the rest of us, they were the work of a genius.

  “You saw two disparate facts. First, that only this one red-headed man—one out of a hundred who could easily have handled the job—was hired. Second, that the man who first brought the job advertisement to his attention was later seen wearing worn, dirty trousers. You connected the two facts.”

  Holmes knitted his brows. His fingers drummed the arms of his chair.

  “You’re stating the obvious,” he said. “And—?”

  “And you have two disparate facts at play now. First, a number of degenerates in a certain area of town are becoming increasingly addicted to the Eshocker dens and Old Ones Serum, causing mental aberrations. Second, at the same time that these symptoms first came to general attention, a number of creatures appeared in the River Thames; the same type of animal you saw at Swallowhead Spring and in the warehouse at St. Bride’s Wharf. We know that these are not hallucinations, since you—Sherlock—who is not unwell, has seen them. So could these creatures be contributing to the mental aberrations? In short, you need to find the link between these two factors. Once I know that, I will be able to sever the connection and rid England of this scourge.”

  He continued, addressing Holmes:

  “I’ve checked with the authorities, who have agreed to give you funds and equip you as you see fit. Machines, artillery, weapons… but they have limited manpower. This might be the greatest crisis England has faced. The matter is urgent.”

  “I’ve yet to meet a case that I could not solve,” Holmes said. “I will do all that I can to succeed.”

  “I expect no less,” his brother said.

  The two locked eyes.

  The game was afoot, as Holmes would say.

  We rose to make our way to what Holmes told me would be a small meal. He was anxious to work on the case and did not want to waste time with dining.

  “A crumb of bread will do,” he said.

  “Eat quickly, then go,” Mycroft said, with the same lack of charm Holmes often displayed when addressing Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft’s eyes sharpened, giving me that same uncomfortable feeling I got when Holmes trained his eyes on me.

  “Doctor, I want you to remember a few things. They might help you,” Mycroft said.

  “Anything,” I replied, “please.”

  “In a book called Theory of Sight, H.F. Goblet wrote that (I am paraphrasing) the co-existence of disparate factors does not necessarily imply restrictions in time or space. I infer from Goblet’s treatise that our minds can connect factors and perceive truths and realities across expanses of both time and space. And now, I will tell you what this means.”

  Holmes interrupted him with a wave of his hand and an irritated tone.

  “Intuition and creativity both rely on connecting factors in ways that most people might not necessarily view as obvious. Decades could pass, and one might remember something seen or heard, something thought, and connect it with something now. Perhaps the Eshockers, the serum, even the creatures (though I do not yet know how) are stimulating the minds of affected humans into perceiving things—visions, sounds, thoughts—that are not readily obvious to most of us. It has been shown through scientific evidence that applying electricity to the cerebral cortex of a monkey will make the animal’s limbs move. Electricity applied to the brain changes the brain.”

  Anticipating the silence—but for the ruffling of newspapers and the grunts of old men—that would hold us for the rest of our time together, Holmes and Mycroft traded a few more facts, each trying to outdo the other. I remained quiet. It was enough that I barely understood their discussion.

  Mycroft rested his hand on the door knob of the Stranger’s Room, saying as he did so, “In 1855, Guillaume Duchenne published scientific evidence of successful brain disease treatment using electricity. His treatise on the subject created a stir in the medical community, particularly among the men of asylums.”

  Holmes replied, “In 1884, Dr. Alexander Robertson, Physician to the City Parochial Asylum in Glasgow, claimed that he cured a patient who had suffered from seven years of paranoid delusions and melancholy as well as hearing voices. His treatment? Galvanic electrotherapy every other day for several months.”

  “The patient was so delighted with her treatment,” Mycroft replied, “that she insisted upon having her head shaved so she could continue with the electrotherapy.” He twisted the knob.

  The door opened without a sound. Quiet whooshed from the inner sanctum and washed over us like the soundless weight beneath the sea.

  “And yet,” Holmes whispered, as we passed into the smoking room, “it has also been proven that too much electricity to the brain causes severe trauma such as epileptic seizures.”

  “Shhhhh…” Mycroft’s cheeks jiggled and turned bright red.

  A dozen or more heads swiveled in our direction, and two dozen (or more) eyes glared at us.

  A smile played across Holmes’s lips. He visibly relaxed. For men such as the Holmes brothers, silence in its purest form meant they could dwell within their thoughts. No disturbance from the pesky, inferior minds of others.

  17

  PROFESSOR MORIARTY

  Thrawl Street

  Crouching beneath the filthy window across the street from Willie Jacobs’s tram machine building, I would watch my conquest without risking discovery.

  I wanted to watch the killing of the police and the capture of my gold mine close up. I wanted to see each face as it registered the knowledge of imminent death and then withered into that place from which we do not emerge.

  I loved watching death. It fascinated me. My first murder was not accidental. I killed François Geraut when I was twelve because I wanted to see the life drain from his eyes. I remained obsessed by the final flicker, the glassiness, the awareness of whatever lay beyond.

  Of course, Geraut had deserved his death. He’d attacked, mutilated, and killed countless women, including my mother.

  However, being practical, I preferred to survive and remain uncaptured far more than I wanted to see these specific policemen die.

  I peeked over the windowsill. A group of street urchins hollered and jostled one another’s shoulders as they ambled past the tram machine building.

  Beyond, in front of a building that I’d stolen from the Klanter family and turned into a den, the boys formed a circle. Their voices rose.

  My pocket watch indicated that it was 11 p.m.

  Dark shrouded the city, and there were no street lamps in this part of London. Here, the residents still used candles after the sun collapsed behind the heavy clouds.

  The
policemen in front of the tram machine building joked with each other. One held a lantern, which illuminated his face and cast a feeble light across the street. I could not see the positions of the other policemen ringing the building behind the spiked iron fence.

  Pressing my nose to the window, I tried to see more clearly, but then quickly withdrew, not wanting to draw attention to myself.

  I kept my head below the sill, letting only my forehead and eyes inch up. My heart was loud in my ears, my breathing shallow. I placed my fingertips on the gritty floor, holding my body steady.

  One boy jabbed another on the chin. Two other boys broke out in a fist fight. A fourth punched the first boy in the stomach, and both unleashed what appeared to be knives in the dim glow cast by the policeman’s lantern.

  I could see little, but what I heard told me the story. Timmy Dorsey, Jr. had enlisted his fellows for a punch-out a short distance from the tram machine building.

  Several policemen opened the spiked iron gate and raced over to the boys.

  “Break it up!”

  “That’s enough, lads! Go home! I said, that’s enough!”

  Meanwhile, larger shadows loomed in the street, growing as they neared the lantern’s glow. The policeman holding the lantern remained by the tram machine building. He held the light high and peered, clearly trying to see what was charging down Thrawl Street from the fire barrel. I knew what these shadows were: Timmy Dorsey, Sr. and his Butchers.

  No doubt, the policeman must know by now, too, I thought, but does he also know that his demise is imminent?

  The Butchers raised cleavers, knives, and saws over their heads. Several dragged other men by their collars and coat sleeves.

  My breath fogged the window.

  I could contain my excitement no further. I hurried down the stairs to the front door of the building where I hid, and trembling, watched the scene unfold.

  To my left, half of the policemen wrenched the fighting boys apart and admonished them to go home. To my right, the other half tried to wrench the Butchers off the men they dragged with them, leaving only the lone man with the lantern guarding the tram machine building.