Weird Detectives

by Neil Gaiman, Simon R. Green, Caitlin R. Kiernan

  I looked to Holmes for some explanation. After all, a salvage operation? Surely that’s a matter that doesn’t require the intervention of the world’s greatest consulting detective.

  “Yesterday,” Holmes said. “The diving bell’s twin went in search of its sibling.”

  I turned to the vessel that so much resembled the boiler of a locomotive. On the side of that great iron cylinder was painted, in white, the name Castor. “And did it find its twin?”

  “It did. The diving bell returned without apparent incident. However, the crew of two were, on the opening of the hatch, found to be quite dead.”

  “Quite dead!” thundered the Captain. “They died of fright. Just take one look at their faces!”

  “What I require of my friend, Dr. Watson, is to examine the deceased. If you will kindly take us to the bodies.”

  “Holmes?” I regarded him with surprise. “A post mortem?”

  “The simple cause of death will be sufficient, Watson.”

  “I can’t, Holmes.”

  “You must, and quickly.”

  “Not unless I am authorized by the local constabulary, or the coroner.”

  “You must tell me how they died, Watson.”

  “Holmes, I protest. I shall be breaking the law.”

  “Oh, but you must, Watson. Because I am to be—” he struck the side of the diving bell, “—this vessel’s next passenger!”

  Before I could stutter a reply a sailor approached. “Captain! It’s started again! The sounds are coming up the line!” His eyes were round with fear. “And it’s trying to make words!”

  That expression of dread on the man’s face communicated a thrill of fear to my very veins. “What’s happening, Holmes? What sounds?”

  “We’re in receipt of another telephone call.” His deep-set eyes locked onto mine. “It hails from ninety fathoms down. And it’s coming from the Pollux!”

  Upon passing through a door marked Control Room, we were greeted by a remarkable sight.

  Three men in officer’s uniforms gathered before telephony apparatus on a table. Fixed to the wall, immediately in front of them, was a horn of the type that amplifies the music from a gramophone. Nearby, two young women stood with their arms round each other, like children frightened of a thunderstorm. Both were dressed in black muslin. Both had lustrous, dark eyes set into bone-white faces. And both faces were identical.

  Twins. That much was evident.

  The occupants of the room stared at the horn on the wall. Their eyes were open wide, their expressions radiated absolute horror. Faces quivered. They hardly dared breathe, lest a quick intake of breath would invite sudden, and brutal, destruction.

  Holmes strode toward the gathering. “Are the sounds the same as before?”

  An officer with a clipped red beard answered, but he couldn’t take his bulging eyes from the speaker horn. “They began the same . . . in the last few minutes; however, they’ve begun to change.”

  A second officer added, “As if it’s trying to form words.”

  The third cried, “Sir! What if it really is him? After all this time!”

  “Keep your nerve, Jessup. Remember that ladies are present.” Captain Smeaton tilted his head in the direction of the two women. Then he said, “Dr. Watson. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Katrina Barstow, widow of George Barstow, and her sister, Miss Claudine Millwood.”

  “Evidently,” murmured Holmes, “this isn’t the occasion for formal introductions.”

  For the women in black disregarded me; they hugged each other tight, desperate for some degree of comfort amid the horror.

  “A series of clicks.” Holmes tilted his head to one side as he listened. “Almost like the sound produced on a telephone speaker when a thunderstorm is approaching.”

  Jessup cried, “Or the sound of his bones. They’ve begun moving about the Pollux!”

  Captain Smeaton spoke calmly. “Go below to your cabin, Jessup.” Jessup fled from his post, and fled gratefully it seemed to me.

  More clicks issued from the horn. The women moaned with dismay. Mrs. Barstow pressed a handkerchief against her mouth as if to stifle a scream.

  Captain Smeaton explained, “After the hawser was recovered from the seabed, my crew secured it to a deck bollard. One of the ship’s apprentices did what he was routinely supposed to do. He attached the Pollux’s telephone wire to this telephone apparatus.”

  Holmes turned to the Captain. “And that’s when you began to hear unusual sounds?”

  “Unusual?” exclaimed the red-bearded officer. “Terrible sounds, sir. They come back to you in your dreams.”

  I listened to the leaden clicking. Very much the sound of old bone striking against yet more bone. “Forgive me, if I ask the obvious. But do you maintain that the telephone line connects this apparatus with that in the diving bell, which has lain on the seabed for five years?”

  “Yes, Dr. Watson. I fear I do.” Captain Smeaton shuddered. “And I wish circumstances did not require me to make such a claim.”

  “And those clicks are transmitted up the wire from . . . ” I refrained from adding Barstow’s tomb.

  Sherlock Holmes turned to me quickly. “Ha! There you have it, Watson. That which cannot be. Is.”

  “Then it is a fault with the mechanism. Surely?”

  “Would I have come aboard this ship, Watson, to attend to an electrical fault? They did not mistake me for a telephony engineer.”

  “But dash it all, Holmes—”

  Then it issued from the horn. A deep voice. Wordless. Full of pain, regret, and an unquestionable longing. “Urrr . . . hmm . . . ahhh . . . ”

  Ice dashed through my veins. Freezing me into absolute stillness. “That sound . . . ”

  “Human?” asked Holmes.

  “Decidedly. At least, it appears so.”

  “Fffmm . . . arrnurr . . . Mmm-ursss . . . ”

  The deep, shimmering voice from the horn trailed away into a sigh comprised of ghosting esses. “Ssss . . . ”

  The pent-up scream discharged at last. Mrs. Barstow cried, “That’s my husband! He’s alive. Please bring him back to me. Please!”

  Her sister murmured to her, reassuring her, comforting her.

  “No, Holmes,” I whispered to my friend. “That’s impossible. No mortal man could survive five years underwater without air.”

  “Survive? Or evolve? As environment demands? Remember Darwin.”

  “Holmes, surely you’re not suggesting—”

  “I’m suggesting we keep our minds open. As well as our eyes.”

  The voice came ghosting from the horn again. That longing—yet it appeared to come from the lips of a man who had witnessed the unimaginable. His widow wept.

  Captain Smeaton said, “Perhaps the ladies should leave.”

  “No!” Holmes held up his hand. “Now is the time to unravel this particular mystery!”

  The syllables rising from the Pollux became a long, wordless groan.

  “Mrs. Barstow.” Holmes spoke briskly. “Forgive what will be difficult questions at this vexing time. What did you call your husband?”

  The widow’s eyes, which were surely as dark as the coal that fired water into steam in this very ship, regarded Holmes with surprise.

  “Madam, how did you address your husband?”

  She responded with amazement. “His name? Are you quite mad?”

  “Madam, indulge me. Please.”

  “My husband’s name is Mr. George Barstow.”

  His manner became severe. “You were husband and wife. Surely, you gave him a familiar name? A private name?”

  “Mr. Holmes, I protest—”

  “A nickname.”

  Miss Millwood stood with her arm around Mrs. Barstow, glaring with the utmost ferocity at my friend.

  “If I am to unravel this mystery, then you must answer my questions.”

  The groaning from the horn suddenly faded. An expectant silence followed. An impression of someone listening hard. A some
one not in that room.

  Still Mrs. Barstow prevaricated. “I don’t understand what you would have me say, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Tell me the private name with which you addressed the man whom you loved so dearly. The name you spoke when you and he were alone.”

  A storm of rage erupted. Not from any living mouth there. It came from the speaker horn that was connected by some hundred fathoms of cable to the diving bell at the bottom of the ocean. The roar came back double, then again many-fold. It seemed as if demons by the legion bellowed their fury, their outrage and their jealous anger from the device. The pair of ship’s officers at the desk covered their ears and fled through the doorway.

  At last the awful expulsion of wrath faded. The speaker horn fell silent. Everyone in the room had been struck silent, too. All, that is, except for Sherlock Holmes.

  “Mrs. Barstow. A moment ago you said these words to me: ‘My husband’s name is Mr. George Barstow.’ ”

  “Indeed.” Recovering her composure, she stood straighter.

  “Is, Madam, not was?”

  “Is!”

  “Therefore in the present tense. As if he is still alive?”

  “Of course.” She pointed a trembling finger at the speaker horn. “Because he lives. That’s his voice.”

  “Then perhaps you will tell me your private name for Mr. Barstow? The one you use when the servants are gone, and all the lamps are extinguished.”

  The blast of sound from the instrument almost swept us off our feet. A glass of water on the desk shattered. At that moment, the widow’s sister stiffened, her eyes rolled back, and she fell into a dead faint. Holmes caught the woman to prevent her striking the floor.

  Nevertheless, he fixed Mrs. Barstow with a penetrating gaze. “Madam. I am still waiting for you to reveal the name—that secret name only you and he knew.”

  “Katrina. Stay silent. Do not say it!”

  All heads turned to the speaker. That voice! Waves of such uncanny power radiated from every syllable.

  “George,” she cried.

  “Do not speak with Sherlock Holmes. He is evil. The man is our enemy!”

  “You heard with your own ears!” she shouted, her fist pressed to her breast. “My husband is alive!” She turned to Captain Smeaton. “Send the machine down to save him.”

  Captain Smeaton’s weather-beaten face assumed a deeper shade of purple. “I will not. Whatever’s down there can no longer be George Barstow. Not after five years.”

  “He’s immortal,” she cried. “Just as my sister promised.”

  My friend’s eyes narrowed as the widow voiced this statement. Quickly, he settled the unconscious form of Miss Claudine Millwood into a chair at the desk. I checked the pulse in her neck.

  “Strong . . . very strong. She’s fainted, that’s all.”

  “Thank you, Watson,” said Holmes. “And I rather think the pieces of our jigsaw are falling into place.” He picked up the handset part of the phone and spoke into the mouthpiece. “Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

  “Barstow.”

  “For a man dead these last five years you sound remarkably vigorous.”

  “So shall I be when you are dust, sir.”

  Holmes turned to Captain Smeaton.

  “You knew Barstow well. Is that his voice?”

  “God help us. Indeed it is.”

  Mrs. Barstow clawed at Smeaton’s arm. “Send the machine. Bring him to me!”

  “No!” Captain Smeaton’s voice rang out with fear, rather than anger.

  “I agree with Mrs. Barstow.” Holmes pulled on his black leather gloves. “Prepare the diving bell. I will visit the Pollux myself.”

  “Impossible.”

  “I insist. For I must see for myself who—or what—is the tenant of your lost machine.”

  Not many men thwart my friend, Sherlock Holmes. Ten minutes later, the crew had the Castor ready for descent. Holmes quickly returned to the control room. The twin sister still lay unconscious; the horror had overwhelmed her senses. The widow stood perfectly straight: her dark eyes regarded Holmes from a bone-white face.

  “Mrs. Barstow,” he intoned. “You do know that what you crave is an impossibility? Your husband cannot still be a living, breathing man after five years in that iron canister.”

  “I have faith.”

  “I see.”

  “Mr. Holmes, do you wish to hear that private name I gave my husband?”

  Holmes spoke kindly, “That will no longer be necessary.”

  I couldn’t remain silent. “Good God, man, surely you will not descend in that machine?”

  “I have no choice, Watson.”

  “Please, Holmes, I beg—”

  “Wait for me here, won’t you, old friend?” He gave a wry smile. “Fates willing, this won’t be a lengthy journey.” He picked up the telephone’s handset. “But first, one more question. Barstow?”

  A sound of respiration gusted from the speaker.

  “Barstow. Tell me what you see from your lair?”

  “All is green. All is green. And yet . . . ”

  “And yet what?”

  “The funnel of this wreck towers above the diving bell. Always I see the funnel standing there. A black monolith. A grave-marker. Do not come here . . . ”

  “It is my duty, sir. You are a mystery. I must investigate.”

  “No.”

  “My nature compels me.”

  “No! If you should dare to approach my vessel I will destroy you!”

  “Sir, I shall be with you presently.”

  Holmes briskly left the room. The voice still screamed from the speaker: “You will die! You will die!”

  We crossed the aft deck to the Castor. With utter conviction I announced, “Holmes. I’m coming with you.”

  He gave a grim smile. “Watson. I was rather hoping you would.”

  Moments later, we clambered through a hatch into the huge iron cylinder. In shape and in size, it resembled, as I’ve previously described, the boiler of a locomotive. Within: a bench in padded red plush ran along one wall. In the wall opposite the seat, a pair of portholes cast from enormously thick glass. They were set side by side, and prompted one to envisage the bulging eyes of some primordial creature. Above us, the blue sky remained in view through the open hatch. Captain Smeaton appeared.

  “Gentlemen. You will receive fresh air through the tube. If you wish to speak to me, use the telephone mounted on the wall there beside you. God speed!”

  “One moment, Captain,” said Holmes. “When Watson and I are dispatched to the seabed, ensure that Mrs. Barstow and her sister remain in the control room with you. Is that understood?”

  “Aye-aye, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Upon your word?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good. Because their proximity to you might very well be a matter of life and death.”

  Then the hatch was sealed tight. A series of clanks, a jerking sensation, the crane lifted the Castor off the deck. A swaying movement, and I spied through the thick portholes that we were swung over the guardrail and dangled over the ocean; such a searing blue at that moment. “Castor and Pollux,” I whispered, every fiber tensing. “The heavenly twins.”

  “Not only that. In most classical legends Pollux is immortal. Whereas—” he patted the curving iron wall in front of him. “—Castor is a mere mortal. And capable of death.”

  The shudders transmitted along the hawser to the diving bell were disconcertingly fierce. The sounds of the crane motors were very loud. In truth, louder than I deemed possible. Until, that is, the diving bell reached the sea. With a flurry of bubbles it sank beneath the surface. White froth gave way to clear turquoise.

  Swiftly, the vessel descended. Silent now. An iron calf slipping free of its hulking mother on the surface.

  “Don’t neglect to breathe, Watson.”

  I realized I was holding my breath. “Thank you, Holmes.”

  “Fresh air is pumped through the inlet hose above ou
r heads.”

  “Hardly fresh.” I managed a grim smile. “It reeks of coal smoke and tickles the back of the throat so.”

  “At least it is wholesome . . . if decidedly pungent.”

  The light began to fade as we sank deeper. I took stock of my surroundings. The interior of the cylinder offered little more room than the interior of a hansom cab. Indeed, we sat side by side. Between us hung the cable of the telephone. The handset had been clipped to the wall within easy reach. And down we went.

  Darker . . . darker . . . darker . . . The vessel swayed slightly. My stomach lightened a little, as when descending by elevator. I clenched my fists upon my lap until the knuckles turned white.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” Holmes said. “The barometric pressure of the interior remains the same as that of sea-level.”

  “Then we will be spared the bends and nitrogen narcosis. The former is agonizing. The latter intoxicates and induces hallucination.”

  “Ah! You know about the medical perils of deep-sea diving.”

  “When a former army doctor sits beside a naval doctor at his club you can imagine the topics of conversation over the glasses of port.” I clicked my tongue. “And now I tell you this so as to distract myself from the knowledge that we are descending over five hundred feet to the ocean floor. In a blessed tin can!”

  Holmes leaned forward, eager to witness what lay beyond the glass. The water had dulled from bright turquoise to blue. To deep blue. A pink jellyfish floated by. A globular sac from which delicate filaments descended. Altogether a beautiful creature. Totally unlike the viscous remains of jellyfish one finds washed ashore.

  Holmes read a dial set between the portholes. “Sixty fathoms. Two thirds of the way there, Watson.”

  “Dear Lord.”

  “Soon we should see the shipwreck. And shortly, thereafter, this vessel’s twin.”

  “Twin?” I echoed. “Which reminds me. I thought the twin sisters we encountered today were decidedly odd.”

  “Ah-ha. So we are two minds with a single thought.”