Sherlock Holmes: The Quality of Mercy and Other Stories

by William Meikle

  SHERLOCK HOLMES:

  THE QUALITY OF MERCY

  AND OTHER STORIES

  by John Hamish Watson, MD

  William Meikle

  DARK REGIONS PRESS

  2016

  FIRST EBOOK EDITION

  TEXT © 2013 BY WILLIAM MEIKLE

  COVER ART AND INTERIOR ILLUSTRATIONS

  © 2012 BY M. WAYNE MILLER

  EDITED BY JOE MOREY

  COPY EDITOR, F.J. BERGMANN

  ISBN: 978-1-62641-200-2

  DARK REGIONS PRESS, LLC

  P.O. BOX 31022

  PORTLAND, OR 97203

  WWW.DARKREGIONS.COM

  Grateful acknowledgement to Conan Doyle Estate Ltd. for permission to use the Sherlock Holmes characters created by the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

  Acknowledgements

  EF

  All fiction is original to this collection except for the following stories:

  THE CALL OF THE DANCE originally appeared in The Lovecraft Ezine #5, 2010

  THE COLOR THAT CAME TO CHISWICK originally appeared in Gaslight Arcanum (Edge Publishing, 2011)

  THE QUALITY OF MERCY originally appeared in Gaslight Grotesque (Edge Publishing, 2009)

  REVENANT originally appeared as a trade paperback from Dark Regions Press (2011)

  Dedication

  EF

  To Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  Table of Contents

  A Prologue

  The Quality of Mercy

  The Case of the Walrus Tusk

  The Color That Came to Chiswick

  The Call of the Dance

  The Case of the Highland Fiddle

  The Case of the Lost Overcoat

  The Case of the Tibetan Rug

  The Yellow Peril

  The Case of the Jade Pendant

  Revenant

  List of Illustrations

  I smelled the grave. The mist took on the cowled human form …

  … looming at first, then opening in the impression of a vast mouth.

  The slime at his feet started to creep again …

  The green aurora glowed in all four wounds.

  He took out the fiddle and showed me its unusual design of piercing …

  It wrapped itself around Isaacs’ legs, tripping him …

  … a silhouetted figure sitting by the fire smoking a pipe.

  Even as we watched, the infection crawled into his mouth …

  Talons slid from under his fingernails, slithering and viscid.

  … black in the gaslight, already pooling around his head.

  I followed him around some of the most miserable parts of the city …

  A Prologue

  EF

  When I first set out to document the casebook of my good friend Sherlock Holmes, there were some cases I approached with a certain degree of trepidation. Holmes has a public face as a man of strict rationality, a stickler for method and observation. But Holmes himself has always been open to more extreme possibilities.

  I shall let him sum up his philosophy in his own words, for he said it far more cogently than I can muster.

  “What is reality?” I asked him one evening as we sat by the fire in 221B Baker Street. I did not really expect an answer, but Holmes gave it some thought before replying.

  “Our notion of reality is really rather loosely defined,” he said. “Our human sensory inputs form the easily fooled last link in the chain of our cognition, but we rely on those senses to define the nature of all our reality. The Brain-in-a-Vat argument tells us everything we need to know about the limitations of our knowledge of the universe.”

  I will admit that all of this went rather above my head.

  “What in blazes is the Brain-in-a-Vat argument? It sounds like something from a penny dreadful.”

  Holmes smiled.

  “Put simply, we can never know anything for certain. We might be merely a disembodied brain in a vat with all our sensory inputs being faked, and we would have absolutely no way of knowing.”

  “So are you a mechanist, Holmes? All human passion, all memory, all imagination ... the complete human experience. All of it just comes from the chemistry in our brains ... as the movements of a clock follow from the arrangement of its cogs and wheels? But do you believe in fate?” I said.

  I wasn’t really following the path of the conversation, but Holmes had strayed into areas where we had never before ventured, and I was interested in hearing his reply.

  “Have we always been predestined to end up here, in this room, at this time?” I asked.

  Holmes smiled again. “That depends on whether one is a determinist or not. If you had enough brain-power, you could calculate the exact position of everything in the universe, at any given time, and so know exactly what will happen, also at any given time. And if that can be done, then, yes, we are destined to be here. There is no other way for the Universe to have arranged itself.”

  “But knowing the position of everything in the Universe is not possible, is it?”

  “Correct, Watson. Because, to be able to predict the future of the Universe, we would need to know its initial state. Any gaps in our knowledge of the initial state would limit the accuracy of our predictions; and small errors would become large enough errors that, in effect, the extent of future into which we can predict much at all is limited.”

  “But that is all still rationalism, still science,” I said. “What about fate? You still haven’t answered that question.”

  Holmes was quiet for a time before answering.

  “We are both men of the world, Watson,” he replied. “We have seen death and faced its mysteries. We both know there is more to the ways of the world than the mere mechanics. On my journeys in the Far East, the adepts taught me the value of spirit and emotion, and how they can enhance rather than restrict the intellect. They taught me to embrace the cosmos, in all its wild, inexplicable, chaotic glory. If, along the way, I can manage to make sense of parts of it through my method, that is all well and good. But the method alone is just a tool to help me explain the way of things. And tools are only as efficient as the job to which you apply them. Indeed, sometimes I feel as if I have a screwdriver when a wrench is needed.”

  We did not speak of it again after that, but there were cases, many of them, where the mechanics of the Universe seemed to shift gears and reveal a different set of patterns. I often, in those times, thought of Holmes’ analogy of tools and toolmakers; indeed, I myself have come to wonder if the clockmaker behind the scenes is not, like the rest of us, somewhat confused on occasion.

  Holmes, if he has such qualms, keeps them to himself.He approaches each case in the same manner, starting with the method and trusting it to lead him to the appropriate conclusion. As for myself, I can only say that I will continue to follow his lead and trust his instincts, even if the cases do indeed take a path off the beaten track.

  I have detailed some of the more extreme of our cases here: my record of the times where we needed a screwdriver but only had wrenches.

  The Quality of Mercy

  EF

  I was late in reaching Waverley Station. I had left my lodgings in Melville Street with plenty of time to spare, but then I had to make several detours through Thistle Street and Rose Street to lose my stalker. I reached the bridge just as the train pulled in below me.

  By the time I got to the platform, most of the passengers had disembarked. A figure stood with his back to me, smoking a briar pipe and humming a tune I almost recognized. There was something about the cropped hair and the ruddy neck that stirred a memory at the back of my mind. I had not seen t
he man since Afghanistan, but as soon as he turned, it was as if the years between had never been.

  “Dr. Watson, I presume,” I said.

  He laughed at the long-unused witticism and pumped my hand. “Well met, Captain McKay,” he said. “You have scarcely changed a jot.”

  His concerned look gave the lie to that statement, but I had been seeing that look too often recently to pay it any mind. I bent to take his valise to avoid looking him in the eye and led him up the stairs.

  Since my arrival, steady drizzle had set in. Late afternoon sun glistened on the cobbles, spearing into my head and bringing on another headache. Across the street, a shadow lurked in the doorway of Jenners, a shadow that moved away quickly around the corner even as I watched.

  “Let us find a carriage,” I said. “This rain depresses me.”

  Watson laughed loudly. “Better this than Candahar, though. Do you remember …”

  And at that he went off on a long reminiscence that in any other circumstances would have had me misty-eyed in nostalgia.

  I barely heard a word of it. The shadow was back in Jenner’s doorway.

  I took his valise in one hand, his arm in the other and half-dragged him to a carriage. I did not release my grip on either until we were rattling along Princes Street toward my lodgings.

  “Dear God, man,” Watson said quietly. “What has you so afeared?”

  I put a finger to my lips. “Not here. I have a story that needs telling. But I also have a thirst that needs quenching. Mayhap we can combine the two over dinner?”

  I felt ashamed asking him to pay the driver, but beggars cannot be choosers. Just as we turned toward my driveway, I thought I saw the stalker again, under a lamp over by the church.

  I hurried Watson inside.

  While he completed his ablutions I set out the poor repast I had managed to scrape together. I had cold meats, and fresh bread. It was not much, but the whisky had taken most of my Army pension, and these past few days, oblivion had become more important than sustenance.

  Watson was obviously straining at the leash to inquire as to my circumstances, but he maintained a constant chat of news of his circumstances in London over dinner. It was not until he pushed his plate away, and I poured the first of many fingers of whisky, that talk turned to the reason I had contacted him.

  Watson got his pipe going while I gathered my thoughts.

  “I promised you a tale,” I said. “But I warn you; it is more outlandish than any you will have heard afore.”

  He smiled, but said nothing.

  Before I had time to reconsider, I took a long draught from my glass and plunged headlong into the story.

  “It began barely a month after Jeannie passed on,” I started, then had to stop almost immediately, reaching for more of the stiffener. That particular wound was still open, still raw.

  “I was lost, John. More alone than I have ever been. I clutched at anything that might give me succor. I went to church, but all I heard were empty promises. I visited a spiritualist in Leith but no amount of table-knocking or heavenly trumpets could convince me that Jeannie was there. The bottle called more loudly to me every night. I was near ready to fall into it completely when I met Colonel Menzies.”

  Watson interrupted. “Mad Tam?”

  “The very same. Older now, but still as angry as ever. Or he was, at first. But over the next two weeks he seemed to take on a calm, almost contented demeanor. He, too, was a widower. We shared our grief, which he was handling with much steadier calm than I. Over a glass of port in the Officer’s Club he told me his secret. And he promised to share it. That very same night he introduced me to the Seekers of Light.”

  Watson glowered over his pipe at me, but he said nothing, merely motioned with the pipe-stem for me to continue.

  “Mad Tam swore to me that they were the single thing that was keeping him alive, and that they were holders of secrets … secrets that allowed them to commune with the dead. After a fair degree of cajoling on his part, and a larger degree of liquor on mine, I agreed to accompany him to a meeting.

  “At first I thought it was more a social gathering than anything else—like the evenings with our brothers on the square. Before that first meeting, I met the Seekers. Among them were police officers, city councilors, and even my bank manager. It was all so very convivial. Indeed, initially it was all smiles and jollity, and I was made to feel special—wanted, even. They made me promises that the spiritualists would not … promises that I would once more see my Jeannie.

  “And in my grief, I believed them all.

  “Over the course of the next month I frequented their temple ever more frequently. As I have said, I believed their promises. That in itself was enough for me to endure the indignities I was put though, not the least of which involved the wearing of robes and headpieces that would have embarrassed even the young princess in Candahar.

  “Then came the night that was meant to make it all worthwhile. They washed and dressed me in an antechamber before leading me into a darkened room. I had prepared myself for theatrics, mayhap even a small amount of bloodletting.

  “I had underestimated their resolve. The first thing I heard was the chant. Every word is engraved in my mind.

  “Elohim do battle for him in the name of Tetragrammaton.

  “Malachim protect him in the name of Jod He Vau He.

  “Seraphim cleanse him in the name of Elvoih.

  “Hajoth a Kadosh, cry, speak, roar, bellow.

  “The chant gave way to a cacophony of drums and cymbals. The room went cold, colder even than a night under the stars in the Punjab. I felt goose-pimples run the length of my body. I was almost about to complain of my situation when I smelled it; the rot of the grave. We have both been too close to that often enough to mistake it for anything else.

  “Something touched me in the dark. It felt both warm and cold simultaneously. A feather-light caress stroked my cheek, just for a second. I reached forward and felt cold flesh beneath my fingers. The taint of the grave grew stronger still. Someone breathed against my face; a whispered word, just one, but it rocked me to my core.

  “Darling.”

  “Before I really knew what had just happened the lights came on, costumes were shed and someone brought out the sherry. Once more, it was like a Morningside tea party. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the evening. Save me.

  “Whatever had been there in the room with me, it had known me. I was afeared down to my very bones that I knew who it had been. I made my excuses and left.

  “I have not returned to that place. But since that night, I have been filled with a dread that does not lift.”

  Watson’s look was full of compassion. I hated to see it. He leaned over the table. “You are merely afraid that you will never see your wife again.”

  I took a long swig of the cratur before replying. “No, John,” I whispered. “I am afraid that I will.”

  Watson was quiet for a long time. When he finally spoke, it was as Doctor Watson rather than my friend John. “I can prescribe you a sleeping-draught, if that is what is required?” he said.

  I waved the whisky glass at him. “I have the path to oblivion right here,” I said. “It is not enough.”

  “I never took you for a nervous cove, McKay,” he said.

  I laughed, rather too loudly. “My nerves are fine, John. As is my mind. That which stalks me is all too real.”

  I could see that he wasn’t convinced. I drained my glass and rose from the table. “Come, then, Doctor. Let us see if your rationalism can survive this night.”

  He protested at first, but soon saw that I was determined. He let me lead him out onto the road. I pointed to our right, where the rear of St. Mary’s Cathedral loomed over the footpath.

  “Look,” I said. “Under the nearest gas light. Do you see it?”

  The lurker was there, a deeper dark in the dancing shadows. Watson had that puzzled but interested look on his face that I recognized from our days in service together. He
made to walk toward the cathedral.

  I grabbed at his arm. “John. Please. I’m not sure I’m ready for any confrontation.”

  “Nonsense,” he said. He drew his service revolver from inside his waistcoat and started walking toward the Cathedral. I followed, much more slowly, and wishing now I had stayed firmly indoors with the whisky bottle.

  “Now then,” I heard Watson say. “Come forward and explain yourself, sir.”

  I saw him raise the pistol and aim.

  The shadow took on a degree of solidity. A hooded figure stood there, a cowl hanging over the face obscuring it completely.

  “It is a woman,” I heard Watson say, no more than a whisper. He lowered the pistol. “Madam. Please come forward. We mean you no harm.”

  The gaslight above the shadow flared, suddenly as bright as a new-lit candle, then just as quickly flickered and died. The cowled figure faded and dispersed like smoke in the wind. Once more I registered the unmistakeable taint of the grave.

  Watson had become still. He turned back to me, his face ashen and devoid of color. “Where did she go?” he whispered. “Dear God, McKay … where did she go!”

  I took him by the arm and led him back to my lodgings and the comfort of the bottle. It took three fingers to get some color back to his cheeks, but it would take a while longer for him to fully recover his composure.

  “I think I can see now why you contacted me,” Watson said as I refilled his glass.

  “Actually, John, it was your esteemed friend I really wanted.”

  Watson managed a smile. “A case such as this does not interest Holmes,” he said. “He said as much to me before I left London. He believes your grief has momentarily unhinged you.”

  “And do you believe that, John? After what you have just seen.”