The White Worm

by Sam Siciliano

  “As Henry said, it is more than generous, Mr. Selton. Tell me, sir, have you spoken to Miss Marsh about this letter?”

  “Of course not!”

  “How, then, would we explain my presence in Yorkshire?”

  Selton opened his mouth, then closed it, brow furrowed. “I don’t know.”

  “We can simply say you are there for rest and recuperation,” I said, “which would be true enough.”

  Holmes nodded. “Perhaps, although that might not be entirely convincing. Mr. Selton, you mentioned some local stories and rumors. How serious is this? Does anyone actually claim to have seen something?”

  Selton still looked worried. “Yes. Some have seen a greenish glow in the woods at night… and even a white apparition.”

  Holmes nodded. “Then we can also say I have been asked by someone in the local village to look into the matter. Which village is closest to Diana’s Grove?”

  “Micklethorpe.”

  “Excellent. Someone from Micklethorpe has engaged me, and he recommended I stay nearby, with you. Be here at eight o’clock sharp in the morning, Mr. Selton, and we shall take the eight-thirty express train north.”

  Selton drew in a great breath which seemed to go on and on, swelling his chest. “Oh thank you, Mr. Holmes—thank you!” He downed the last of the brandy, then stood. He turned to me. “And thank you, Dr. Vernier.” His crushing parting grip was exactly what might have been expected from someone his size, and after the door was closed, I shook my hand a few times, trying to regain feeling.

  “Will you really come with us to Yorkshire, Henry?”

  “Yes, for a while, anyway. You know I cannot bear to be away from Michelle for long.”

  “I wish she could come, too. With Miss Marsh and Lady Verr—and the distraught Mr. Selton—I suspect her feminine knowledge of the emotions would be useful.”

  “I’m sure it would, but she is busy as ever. Even as my practice withers, hers grows. Still, I shall try to persuade her. She could certainly do with a holiday, too.”

  Holmes shook his head and returned to his chair. “Somehow I do not think this will be a holiday. Oh, the story is preposterous enough, as you noted, and I doubt we will find a great white serpent lurking in Yorkshire. All the same, as I have often noted, human evil is far worse than anything found in the natural world. The most fearsome monsters are those which assume human shape—and frequently a pleasing one, at that.” He raised the first page of the document which Selton had left behind. “This is an obvious forgery, but it did require time and effort.”

  “How can you tell it is a forgery?”

  He shook his head. “This is a common enough paper of good quality which can be purchased at any shop in London. The brownish yellow tint comes from tea.”

  “Tea!” I said with a laugh.

  “The sheets were dipped in tea, then allowed to dry. However, a faint odor remains. No doubt the edges were charred by a flame. As I said, it would have taken time, but it is a rather amateurish effort. The story, on the other hand, is a tour-de-force. I recall some Romantic poem about a lamia, a snake who assumed the form of a beautiful woman. The lamia came from Greek mythology, but closer to home there was the Lambton Worm which terrorized the countryside before a knight slew it. That tale is the most likely source of this document, although the beautiful and seductive maiden is an addition. It also owes much to the romantic poets and to Tennyson’s Arthurian Idlylls of the King.”

  “Why would someone go to all that trouble? Poor Selton. He is certainly an odd duck.”

  “He is only young, Henry, and way out of his depth. Whoever is playing with him is far, far beyond his league. Tell me, though—and in this I must defer to you—despite all that blushing, I suspect that Mr. Selton may have had more of a relationship with this young woman than he admits.”

  I felt my brow crease. “Carnal relations?”

  Holmes nodded. “Exactly.”

  I shook my head. “I do not think so.”

  Mrs. Hudson arrived at last with a tray bearing tea and a sandwich for Holmes, which she sat next to his chair. Holmes poured himself tea from the porcelain teapot. “You are certainly more knowledgeable in this area than I. What do you make of Selton?”

  “Might I have another brandy?” I poured myself some, then resumed my place on the sofa. “I have had male patients come to me because they were unable to consummate their relationship with their spouse. Young men, recently married, are the most desperate. Young girls are not the only ones to go to the marriage bed woefully ignorant and unprepared. The men hope I will have some magical pill or potion. There is none, and mostly what they need is time and reassurance. Another variation is when a youth has been presented with a prostitute by his supposed friends or a parent, and…”

  “A parent?” Holmes exclaimed.

  I nodded. “Yes, a parent—a father, to be precise. They want to get the young man started, to make him into a man. With a sensitive youth, it is not all mechanics and blind lust. Without some feeling or strong physical attraction, it is simply impossible. Such an introduction is a cruel trick to play on a vulnerable nature. It can take its toll for years afterward. I suspect that may be the case with Selton.”

  Holmes nodded. “I am glad I asked for your counsel.” A faint, rather bitter smile pulled at his lips. “This is where your knowledge is clearly superior to mine. Given his youth, his bewilderment and nervousness, your appraisal strikes me as the correct one.”

  “I wonder what the young lady is like. And the aunt.”

  Holmes nodded slightly. “Snakes, of course. White snakes.”

  My eyes widened, and then Holmes laughed. “We shall see soon enough.”

  * * *

  I lay holding Michelle close to me, my breath gradually slowing, almost ready to dream.

  “You do well at ardent farewells, my dear,” she murmured.

  I caressed her hip. “So do you.”

  “I didn’t think I had it in me. It has been such a long day. But if you are to go traipsing off to Yorkshire tomorrow with Sherlock to bask idly in the sun…”

  “I would like that, but it certainly didn’t turn out that way last time. I just hope it doesn’t become a nightmare, as happened at Dartmoor. I have never been so glad to see you in my life as when you appeared that morning. Even under the best of circumstances, you know I don’t like being apart from you. Are you certain you can’t get away for a few days’ holiday?”

  She sighed softly. “I wish I could, but now is not a good time.”

  “It is never a good time with you.”

  She kissed my shoulder. “Oh Henry, you know I would like to come. Don’t sulk.”

  I squeezed her hand tightly, then turned onto my back. “Promise me, though…” I frowned into the darkness.

  “Promise you what?”

  “If something happens like last time—if I really need you—that you will come.”

  She rose up on one elbow and kissed me gently. “Of course I promise you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Two

  With his copious knowledge of the train schedules, Holmes had found us an early express train to York. Late that afternoon we transferred to the train for Whitby. The weather had been almost fair for the first part of our journey, blue sky showing, the sun intermittently lighting up the rolling greenery of the English countryside. However, as we traveled north from York into the vast desolation of the moors, the sky darkened and the heavens opened, a deluge of biblical proportions commencing.

  Staring through the glass of our first-class compartment and the sheets of rain, we could hardly make out the landscape: only an impression of gently curving earth with blurs of brown which must have been the yet-unflowering heather, then occasional dark clumps of trees. Along a green hillside were the white figures of sheep. The train descended through a narrow valley as we approached the town of Whitby.

  Selton’s valet Evans was waiting for us at the station, a tall lanky figure in black overcoat a
nd black bowler hat, luckily with umbrellas in hand. We walked through the pouring rain to a rustic-looking wagonette. I sat staring grimly at Selton through the drips pouring off my umbrella, even as the wagonette rumbled uphill along a narrow street. Holmes had begun to cough again.

  I shook my head. “Spring sunshine? This is worse than London.”

  “Come now, Henry,” Holmes said. “The air may be liquid, but it is cleaner.”

  The rain muted the colors of the red roofs, and we could not really make out the piers or much more than the vast amorphous gray of the sea. Once atop the hill, we passed the famous abbey, its dark stone remnants and arched windows framing the turbulent gray sky. A cold steady wind from the sea blew the tall green grass sideways and rippled the gray waters of a pond. A few cows grazed nearby. The wind picked up as we headed on to the moorlands.

  “How far is it?” I asked, almost shouting to be heard over the downpour.

  “About an hour,” Selton replied. He sat in the seat facing us holding a big black umbrella, while Evans was up front holding the reins.

  The ride was a rough one. The open wagonette was obviously not built for comfort and had no springs; the road was uneven and ill kept. By the time we came through a mass of black tree trunks to discover a dark stone house obscured by the rain, I was wet and miserable. My umbrella had blocked rain from overhead, but the wind had blown it almost sideways. Twice the wind was so fierce I had nearly lost it, a fate horrible to even contemplate! Four windows glowed with yellow light, and once we had passed through the entranceway, shedding our wet hats and coats, a hall with its welcoming fireplace awaited us. Huge orange flames leaped and twisted about two massive limbs of dark wood.

  “Oh Lord,” I murmured. “It has been a long day.”

  Beside me, Holmes had stretched out his long, thin fingers, warming them. “It has indeed.”

  Selton joined us. “What would you like to drink, gentlemen? A whisky and soda, brandy, sherry?”

  Evans soon complied with our requests, and I held up a snifter of genuine cognac, letting the firelight illuminate its amber depths, then took a big sip. “I do feel almost human again.” I wiggled my toes, which were damp. My fine London shoes were not made for the Yorkshire moors.

  Holmes sipped at his sherry. “If I am not mistaken, this is a genuine Amontillado.”

  Selton nodded. By the firelight I could see the fine texture, the curving woolen threads, of his brown tweed jacket, and so close to me, I was again aware of his sheer size. I am slightly over six feet tall, but I still found his height and brawny bulk imposing. If he had been a violent or quarrelsome man, he would have been intimidating, but my impression after a day’s journey together was that he was a gentle soul, albeit something of a lost one.

  “You must be hungry, gentlemen. I know I am. They are getting supper ready. It’s nothing fancy, hardly London fare, more of a thick stew, which I prefer in the country.”

  “It sounds wonderful,” I said.

  Evans stepped forward with a piece of paper folded on a tray. He had a thin face, his blond hair parted in the middle. “I forgot to tell you, sir. This telegram came earlier.”

  Selton unfolded the paper and read. His forehead creased. “Oh da—” He bit off the word, shaking his head in annoyance. He crumpled the paper and threw it into the flames.

  Holmes and I looked at one another, then he spoke. “Is anything wrong, Mr. Selton?”

  Selton’s jaw was thrust forward as he shook his head. “No, no, it is only… My parents are coming up from London. I thought they were staying in town for the entire season and that I would be… A little solitude is agreeable sometimes. I don’t know why they would be coming now of all times. Unless…” His forehead creased again. “How could they possibly know?”

  “‘Know?’” I asked.

  “Know that I have engaged Mr. Holmes’s services.”

  “Why would that matter to them?” I asked.

  Selton almost scowled, even as his massive shoulders rose in a shrug.

  Dinner revived us all. Mrs. Childes, the combination cook and housekeeper, was obviously a local, a plump, smiling woman with brawny forearms and a distinct Yorkshire accent. She set a huge platter of stew on the table and filled our bowls. Happily, for me anyway, it was not the expected mutton, but beef, cooked tender in a dark, rich gravy along with potatoes, carrots and leeks. She also served us a wondrous claret, and after my earlier cognac and a second glass of the dark-red wine with its perfect lingering aftertaste, longueur en bouche as the French put it, all seemed right with the world. And I had made it through the meal without once thinking about Michelle.

  Selton lifted a second bottle and made to pour me more, but I covered my glass with my hand. “No, thank you. It was superb, but I have had enough.”

  He glanced at Holmes, poured for him, then filled his own glass. “It’s nice to be away from London. I always like it here. Especially when…” His eyes took on a certain wariness, but then he shrugged. “I like being here alone, with no one to bother me about duties and society and… all of that.”

  “And you don’t mind all the rain?” I asked.

  “No. This time of year, it comes and goes. Besides, I’ve got a good broad-brimmed hat, a macintosh, some Wellingtons to keep my feet dry, and a good stout stick. If you have the proper clothes, the rain is no bother. I’ve walked for miles in a downpour.”

  I shrugged. “That would help, but I hope the sun does appear during our stay.”

  Selton sipped his wine. “It will, Dr. Vernier, perhaps even tomorrow. No telling at night what the next day will bring, especially in spring. That I’ve learned.”

  “Either way,” Holmes said, “rain or shine, tomorrow we must visit Diana’s Grove first thing in the morning.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

  “How far is it?” I asked.

  “About forty-five minutes’ walk.”

  Holmes made a slow circle with his wine glass, regarding the glowing reddish color. “And you mentioned others whom I shall want to visit. The older gentleman, the one who speculated so freely on the nature of antediluvian monsters…”

  “Sir Nathaniel de Salis. His house, Doom Tower, is about the same distance as Diana’s Grove, but down the coast in the opposite direction. Yes, you must meet him. He is an expert on the Yorkshire moors, their history, their geology, their flora and fauna.”

  Holmes sipped the wine. “In that case, you must certainly have consulted with him about the letter and the document.”

  Selton stroked his chin, then nodded at last.

  “And what did he advise?”

  “He thought my idea of seeking you out was a good one.”

  “And what did he think of the tale of the White Worm?”

  “As I told you before, he does consider it possible that such a creature might have survived through the millennia, and if it has, it may have developed great intelligence.”

  Holmes’s smile was a brief grimace. “And what of the notion that the Marsh family might have been somehow cursed by the worm?”

  Selton stirred in his chair, obviously uneasy. Although I understood Holmes’s need to question Selton, it seemed almost cruel when the young man had finally relaxed. “He does not believe in curses or ghosts or the like, but he said there are…” Selton frowned slightly, searching for the words, “psychic manifestations which cross generations… perhaps even common memories. The mind and the will can play curious tricks.”

  Holmes’s gray eyes were faintly amused. “That cannot be disputed. I shall look forward to meeting this worthy gentleman. And finally, the wealthy prodigal bachelor who has returned, where might his castle be found?”

  “To the west, on one of the highest points on the moors. And I must warn you, Mr. Holmes, he is very odd.”

  “In what way?”

  “The Caswalls are descended from ancient Roman stock, and they have always been known for being proud and hot-tempered. Fights and disputes within the family were com
mon, thus his lengthy voyages. His father died a year or two ago, and Mr. Caswall decided to come home to Castra Regis at last. Anyway, he believes in… in mesmerism, Spiritualism, and all that sort of thing. He thinks those with a strong will can control weaker beings. His travels in the East have also convinced him that certain men have the power to levitate, to go into trances and stop their hearts, all that sort of mumbo jumbo.”

  Holmes laughed. “You are more skeptical, I take it? You mentioned he might be a suitor of Lady Verr, Miss Marsh’s aunt.”

  Selton frowned again and was silent for a long while. “I think it may be more the other way round. He has several thousand a year.”

  “So the aunt has a certain pecuniary interest. And what of Miss Marsh? Does money interest her?”

  Selton sat straight up and set both hands flat on the tablecloth. “Not at all—not at all!”

  “Calm yourself, Mr. Selton. I was only asking you a question. I take it… Perhaps your father considers her a greedy fortune-seeker?”

  Selton almost winced, then nodded. “But it’s not true—I swear it isn’t! Money has never interested her. She loves the moors and the sea and the wind and the sky. She’s not like those London girls who only care about silks and dresses and snubbing one another, and all of that nonsense!”

  Holmes nodded. “The fact that she has remained in Yorkshire for so many years and not gone to the city supports what you say.”

  “Father does not know her—he does not know her at all.”

  I put my hand over my mouth, struggling with a yawn. Selton reached into his jacket pocket to withdraw a massive gold watch. “It is late, nearly ten, and you must be tired. I’ll have Evans show you to your rooms.”

  We all stood, and soon Evans, candle in hand, led us up a narrow staircase. The door to Holmes’s bedchamber was directly opposite mine. My room was rather spartan, though the ancient, dark-oak bed was unusually complex, a kind of cabinet built against the wall and its window. If one chose, there were doors which could be closed to shut out the rest of the room. I yawned again, then quickly undressed and put on my night shirt. Once I had lain down, I could hear the wind rattle the window and the rain drumming against the glass.