The White Worm

by Sam Siciliano

  The smell was incredible, a ghastly mixture of fishiness, sea water and general putrefaction. The body lay on a pallet covered by a heavy tan tarp. Holmes knelt down and pulled it away. One quick look was enough. “My God.” I turned away and thrust my head outside, drew in several long slow breaths. “I did not think… it could be so bad.”

  “I have never seen anything like it.” I could tell Holmes had knelt down. “The right ear and part of the neck have been bitten away, but luckily the left is intact. I see the mole, and yes, although the earlobe is greatly swollen, here is the cleft. If you were not looking for it, you would never see it. Also, this is definitely the same boot I noticed the other evening, no cheap mass-produced item, but one made by a cordwainer. It is in the latest style popular among gentlemen in London. Selton clearly paid no attention to Evans’s wardrobe, or he would have known he had another source of income.”

  Thank heavens he was still mostly clothed, so you could not see all the dead flesh. The face was grayish green and bloated, unrecognizable, part of it gone on one side. Other pieces had been torn away, at the upper hip, the shoulder, the clothing ripped apart. One foot was gone entirely, only shredded black wool and a shard of bone remaining. I had taken that much in at a single glance, and I wanted to see no more.

  “These bites… They are indeed remarkable. Dr. Thorpe was right. This was not your common fish. The jaw is long and almost pointed. I expect it must be ten or twelve inches across. Are you sure, Henry, you would not care to have a look? No, I think not. You can just step outside if you wish.”

  “I am fine right here.” I had braced my right hand against the door jamb.

  “Let me just have a look at the back of his head and neck.” I heard him moving the body. “Blast it, his coat is in the way. I shall just use my knife to cut it open.” A ripping sound. “His neck seems untouched. There—ah, yes. Exactly what one might expect. Let me use my knife again to remove some of his hair. It’s difficult to tell with all the swelling, but I am certain there is a contusion, a lump and bruise. He was struck on the back of the head. I doubt the blow killed him, but it allowed them to throw him into the pit.”

  Small black specks began to dance before my vision, obscuring the stones of the doctor’s cottage. I slid down until I was sitting, still facing out of the shed. I leaned over and took deep slow breaths.

  “Henry—Henry.” Holmes’s face was beside me, those gray eyes and that beak of a nose. I noticed that he had cut his cheek shaving that morning.

  “Forgive me,” I murmured. “I thought I was doing all right, but you said… the pit.” I shuddered. “Someone threw him into the pit.”

  “I am certain of it. At high tide, when the water was almost to the top.”

  I moaned. “And then his body was washed out to sea. And something took large bites out of him. Or did something take large bites out of him first? Before he went into the water?”

  Holmes squeezed my arm tightly. “Easy, Henry. Easy. The bites were afterward, when he was in the water.”

  I took a long slow breath. “Yes, of course. He was drowned, already dead, and some monstrous fish ate at him. But why? Why was he killed?”

  “Because he knew too much. He was not only working for Selton senior, but for someone else. He would gladly sell information to anyone willing to pay. We saw that. I suspect he may have decided to try a bit of blackmail, threatening to reveal this person to the celebrated detective, Sherlock Holmes. That was most unwise. He should have realized he was disposable. Of course, he must have foolishly assumed that his employer was not capable of murder.” He shook his head. “A nice touch, this. The neighborhood was already awash with rumors and talk because of the missing livestock. This will cause a sensation. Come on, Henry. A couple more deep breaths, and then let’s get you back to the doctor’s. You have earned your brandy.”

  I slowly rose, my back to the shed. Holmes closed the door. “It’s over and done with, Henry. Given my business with the crime of London, I have seen many a body dredged from the Thames, but never anything quite that ghastly.”

  I walked slowly. The further from the shed we were, the better I felt. “And yet you did not collapse. I feel such a weakling sometimes. Michelle would not have flinched.”

  “Henry, the world is full of brutal men with no feelings or sensitivity. That does not make them superior.”

  “How could you stand it?”

  “Many years of experience have blunted my emotions. Then too, I feel not so much fear or dread as…”

  “As what?”

  “As sadness, Henry, a simple sadness at how cruel life can sometimes be. Evans may have been weak and corrupt, but no one deserves to die the way he did.” He paused before the door. “By the way, say nothing about the pit to Selton or the doctor.”

  We went inside and found the two men seated on the sofa sipping brandy. Holmes went to the decanter, poured out some and handed me the glass. I took a big swallow, then coughed once. “Wouldn’t you like some?”

  He shook his head, then turned to the men on the couch. “It was Evans. There can be no doubt.”

  Selton seemed to freeze briefly, then raised his glass and drained it. “I cannot believe it. It was him. And he is dead. He is truly dead.” Holmes nodded. Selton shook his head. “He was with me for over three years, ever since I left school. I saw him nearly every day. And now he is gone.” He closed his eyes tightly, clenching his teeth. When he opened his eyes, they had filled with tears. “I cannot believe…” He put his right hand over his face. “I thought… I thought he was a… friend.”

  Holmes shrugged. “Perhaps he was. There are many agreeable scoundrels. Your father may have convinced him that he had your best interests at heart.”

  Selton stood up. “I… I want to be alone—I want to walk.” His face clearly showed his struggle with grief. He set down his glass and strode across the room.

  Holmes came forward and touched him lightly on the arm. “Walk, then. Go to Diana’s Grove and tell Miss Marsh and Lady Verr. They will want to know. We shall return your wagonette to Lesser Hill.”

  He nodded, then went outside. I took another swallow of brandy. Dr. Thorpe shook his head. “The poor lad has such a tender heart. Of course, they say people who live in glass houses should not cast stones. But that wasn’t really a stone, was it? I find as I grow older, I have less and less stomach for my profession. I have some money set aside. Perhaps it is time to take down my shingle and give away my elixirs.”

  Holmes smiled. “Break your staff and drown your book several fathoms deep into the sea? You must not let a single extraordinary episode like this make you rush to conclusions, Dr. Thorpe. You are not likely to see another such sight in your lifetime.” He glanced at me, his eyes faintly angry. “I shall see to that.”

  The chief constable from Whitby soon arrived along with one of his men. Mr. Pratt was a small man wearing a black suit and bowler; he had an enormous bushy black mustache which dominated his small, delicate face. He immediately demonstrated his strong constitution in viewing the body, but his deputy was not made of such stern stuff. The man ended up retching outside the shed. Holmes revealed something of his suspicions to Pratt, but asked if he might keep it quiet for a while. Pratt agreed, but warned there would be an coroner’s inquiry in a week or two, and that it must come out then. He and his deputy drove off with the body in the back of their cart.

  I went down the street and sent Michelle a brief telegram: “Gruesome body found, come at once.” I hoped it would be gratuitous because she was already on her way.

  * * *

  Dinner at Sir Nathaniel de Salis’s was pleasant enough. His old cook served a splendid prime rib of beef, and the claret was truly first-rate. The old man had the same sort of easy charm as Arabella, which must have come from being in diplomatic circles. However, he tended to become long-winded and tendentious, and his frequent interjections of “yes?” grew tiresome. During the meal, we avoided the topics of concern, and he regaled us with st
ories about his career abroad and observations upon the peculiarities of other nationalities.

  We lingered at the table until about seven, then trudged slowly up the winding stairway for port and cigars atop his tower. Given the enormous meal, Sir Nathaniel made frequent stops to catch his breath. Just behind us was the old servant, Mitchell, wheezing and carrying a bottle of port. We came out into the huge room with its bookshelves and the bank of windows facing the sea. The sun was low in the sky to the west, at the back of the tower where we could not see it. The light streaming in the windows had a deep yellow-orange cast. I gladly sank into the huge chesterfield. Holmes took the other end, Sir Nathaniel his favorite chair.

  Still wheezing slightly, Mitchell poured port into three small glasses on the sideboard, set them on a silver tray, then plodded first to his master, then to Holmes and to me. He soon followed with a box filled with cigars. Holmes took one, but I declined.

  Holmes put the eight-inch cigar under his nose. “Ah, a genuine Havana, if I am not mistaken.”

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes, a weakness of mine.” Sir Nathaniel had withdrawn a cutter from his pocket and neatly nipped off the end. He gestured to the servant, who struck a match to light the cigar. Mitchell then took the cutter to Holmes, waited, then lit his cigar as well.

  Holmes drew in slowly, savored the smoke a bit, then exhaled a fragrant cloud. “Truly superb. I can honestly say I have never had better.”

  “You flatter me, Mr. Holmes. I don’t allow myself many luxuries any longer, but this is the one exception which, as they say, proves the rule.”

  Holmes withdrew his pocket watch. “It will be dark soon. The sun sets at about seven thirty.”

  Sir Nathaniel’s mouth twisted to one side in an odd smile. “I may have something to show you, gentlemen, something which will make your visit well worthwhile.”

  “It would have been worth it because of the excellent dinner, this port and this cigar, Sir Nathaniel. We need no other reward.”

  My brow had furrowed. “What exactly are you going to show us?”

  “If it does occur—and there are no guarantees—it must be a surprise. We shall want to go outside after the sun has set.”

  Holmes nodded. “I suspect it may have something to do with the White Worm.”

  Sir Nathaniel gave a sharp laugh. “Very good indeed, Mr. Holmes.”

  “While we wait, I have a few questions for you, Sir Nathaniel. I hope you will be willing to answer them.”

  “I believe in frankness, sir. Fire away, as they say.”

  Holmes nodded, exhaled another cloud of smoke. “This really is very good.” He tapped the ash into a big glass ashtray next to the sofa arm. “Very well, Sir Nathaniel. I have heard that you are part of a band of worshipers trying to revive the ancient Celtic religion of the Druids, a group which has been sacrificing animals at Diana’s Grove.”

  The old man nodded thoughtfully. “Very good again, Mr. Holmes. I suspected I could not have any secrets from you. Your description, however, is somewhat misleading. I attend these ceremonies, but not as a true worshiper. I am agnostic on all matters religious, although I must admit I find the Druids and ancient Celts much more appealing than the sniveling Christians of today with their crucified god.”

  “If you are not a believer, why do you participate?” Holmes asked.

  Sir Nathaniel laughed. “Come now, Mr. Holmes! Surely that is obvious.”

  Holmes nodded. “Yes, I suppose it is. You are interested, above all, in the White Worm. You may not believe in Celtic gods and goddesses, but you do believe that some ancient gigantic serpent lives on deep within the earth. These rites may bring him to the surface.”

  “Her, Mr. Holmes—her to the surface.”

  “May bring her to the surface where you might observe her.”

  “Yes. Exactly. And…” His eyes had taken on an odd luster. “It has happened. We have succeeded.”

  I said nothing, but reflected that he must be almost as crazy as Caswall. Sir Nathaniel grinned ironically at me. “I am not mad, Dr. Vernier. As I hope you will soon see.”

  I shook my head. “Grown men and women throwing poor dumb animals into a pit.”

  He laughed. “Come now, Dr. Vernier! Do you not eat those poor dumb animals? You seemed to enjoy the roast beef this evening. How do you think that animal met its end?”

  “It wasn’t drowned.”

  “The animals are mostly not drowned either.”

  “Of course they are.”

  “No, the worm gets them.”

  I shook my head. “This is hopeless.”

  Holmes had been listening thoughtfully to this exchange. “I suppose you have heard the cries of the dying animals. And you may have even… seen something.”

  Sir Nathaniel’s eyes still had an odd intensity. “Yes.”

  “Possibly… possibly a smaller version.” He shrugged. “An infant.”

  Sir Nathaniel laughed again, then shook his head. “Remarkable, Mr. Holmes—remarkable! Even the stories they tell about you do not do you justice.”

  I was staring at Holmes. “Sherlock…?”

  “You are a naturalist, Sir Nathaniel, a scientist. It is hardly surprising that you would do almost anything to see a remarkable creature like the worm, a prehistoric beast who has somehow lived for millennia.”

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes—yes. It is the opportunity of a lifetime. And if the discovery of fossilized dinosaurs created a stir, think of this! It would be the discovery of the century. A living fossil resurrected! A colossus, a being of a size and intelligence unimaginable to us puny mortals of today, yes? It must be intelligent. What if we could communicate with it? What could it tell us!”

  “Yes, your reasoning makes perfect sense,” Holmes said. “This whole business started last autumn, I believe. Was Lady Verr involved? Is she the mistress of ceremonies?”

  The old man shook his head once. “No, absolutely not.” He laughed, exhaling smoke. “I must admit it is a relief to see that you do not know everything, that you have no preternatural powers.”

  “But there is a high priestess. A redhead.”

  “Yes. Her name is Corchen.” This last made him smile.

  “Corchen? That is… some Celtic goddess, I believe. Something to do with… Yes, of course, a snake goddess.”

  “A hit, Mr. Holmes! A palpable hit!”

  “Then that is certainly not her real name, but only an assumed one. Who is she? A member of the local community, or someone new—someone you had not seen before.”

  “The latter.”

  “So she just appeared. Out of nowhere.”

  He laughed. “It does seem that way. I almost suspect… Lady Verr and I had a long discussion about the White Worm and all the legends, as well as the Celts and their history at Diana’s Grove. I had related my thoughts on the possibility that such a creature could have survived into our own times. The Welsh efforts to revive the Celtic religion also came up. It was only two weeks later that I received a letter from Corchen asking if I would help her to create a local Druidic religion based on the worship of a great serpent. She came to see me a few days later.”

  Holmes’s brow had furrowed. “Describe her.”

  “She does somewhat resemble Lady Verr, only a taller specimen. She is fair-skinned, but her hair is even redder, wild and unkempt. She visited me shortly after dark, and insisted we talk outside. She was wearing white woolen robes. Her English has some strange accent, a slight one, which was tantalizingly familiar, but which I could not quite identify. We arranged for a first meeting at the grove on the night of the full moon. I knew some people who might be interested. I spoke to them, they in turn spoke to others. We were ten at our first gathering, but our number has since grown to about thirty-five.”

  I shook my head. “Incredible.”

  “So it is, Dr. Vernier, although you seem to find it reprehensible.”

  “And was it Corchen who suggested the animal sacrifices?” Holmes asked.

  “Yes.”r />
  “And was…? Were there any other strangers at that first meeting, people you did not know?”

  “Yes. Corchen’s acolyte. She has never spoken. I do not even know her name. She is another beautiful woman, but a brunette with long flowing hair, dark-complexioned, as if she were Spanish or Italian.”

  Holmes abruptly leaned forward. “Do you know Lady Verr’s maid, Angela?”

  “Yes, of course. I have been to Diana’s Grove many times and noticed her waiting in attendance.”

  “Could this acolyte have been Angela?”

  He laughed. “No, no, Mr. Holmes! Their faces are not at all the same, and the acolyte is too short. Angela is a giantess. Forget about Lady Verr. I do suspect she may have some connection with Corchen—even that is only a wild guess, but she herself has not participated in our rites. Then, too, I did later mention a possible Druidic revival to Lady Verr to see if she might be interested. She told me the idea of meeting in the grove after dark for religious ceremonies and sacrifices struck her as barbaric nonsense.”

  For once Arabella and I agreed on something.

  “Perhaps,” Sir Nathaniel continued, “perhaps Lady Verr knows Corchen and mentioned my interest to her. That would explain why Corchen then wrote to me.”

  “So Corchen determines when the ceremonies will take place. But I suspect you notify the others.”

  “Frequently she tells us the time of the next meeting, but if there are any changes, she writes to me, and I write to a few others, who in turn have their own contacts.”

  Holmes sat back in the sofa, resting his elbow on the arm, the cigar held loosely between two fingers. “Things would have been in hiatus during the height of winter, but once the snows lower down were gone, it resumed. And who provides the animals?”

  For the first time, Sir Nathaniel seemed uneasy. “Some of our members… fetch them.”

  Holmes merely smiled, but I said, “They steal them, you mean.”

  Sir Nathaniel frowned, but nodded. “You understand I can give you no names, other than that of Corchen.”

  Holmes nodded. “Yes, and that is obviously not her real name.”