by David Marcum
“These bad sorts have a talent for it,” I said. “But as for his phantom...”
“I did not want to believe it, Dr. Watson. I had hopes that your Mr. Holmes might offer some logical explanation for these events. With Francis gone...”
“Holmes has the finest mind in the country. Have faith, Mrs. Salt. Have faith.”
I went to arrange the agreed rooms and snug at a nearby inn, which Parry said was of reasonable reputation. Holmes joined me an hour later, and I recounted what I had heard from Genevieve Salt, but he was in no good mood with regard to the murder scene.
“Trampled and fingered as usual. Not Parry’s fault - some other supposed detective of the force. And after the police, ‘gentlemen’ of the press, scuffing front and back as if buffaloes had passed through.”
“No clues?”
“The windows were certainly not a point of entry. The back door was bolted, the front one locked. There is no attic, nor any hidden entrance to the man’s rooms that I could discern.”
“The wounds could not have been self-inflicted?”
“No, Watson. One perhaps, but not three deep stabs.”
“A spectral mystery, then.”
My friend snorted, and retired to the snug, which he proceeded to turn into the usual smoke-filled assault upon the lungs which plagued Mrs. Hudson at home. I was sent out to stroll the neighbourhood, and report back at supper-time.
The Salts were the talk of every local establishment. I feigned ignorance at the greengrocer, where I gained a first-hand description of Salt himself - a man of temper, swift to anger. Tall and handsome, “in a sly way” said the greengrocer’s wife, with black hair, red lips, and a large nick in the top of his left ear, the result of a falling out between rakes some time ago.
“‘E’s back,’ the woman muttered, stacking early greens in the window. “I swears ‘e’s back, and ‘e’ll tek that wife of ‘is afore long. ‘E said so when they strung ‘im up. Stands to reason, it’s ‘im.”
I did not venture an opinion, but bought an unwanted loaf of bread from the bakery, and heard much the same passing between the customers.
Jabez Salt had returned from the grave, and more deaths would follow.
Despite the circumstances, as a result of my previous disturbed night I slept well. At breakfast, Holmes pressed me for details of my talk with Mrs. Salt, and my perambulations. As usual, he pointed out the questions I had failed to ask, but he did so in good humour. He ate heartily, and when he placed his knife and fork down, he had a smile on his lips.
“Exhumation. We shall have Salt up, and make sure the fellow sleeps as soundly as you did last night. There is always the possibility of the wrong body being buried. Parry - a not unpromising officer - set things in motion immediately after Morton’s death. As a medical man...”
“I think I am up to handling that.”
“Good fellow. I must walk the moor, and speak to Mrs. Salt again - she may be more recovered today.”
We would have parted then and there, but for the landlord, who seemed to be in a dilemma as to whether or not to speak to us. As our plates were cleared, he took small paces back and forth by the door, until Holmes beckoned him over.
“Come, sir. You have something you wish to say
Squat and red-faced, the man rubbed his hands together in anxiety as he approached. “Mr. Holmes, sir - you are here about this Salt case?”
“Indeed.”
The landlord licked his lips. “Sir, I seen him. Black Jabez, in this very inn.”
My friend gave an encouraging smile. “And when was this, Mr. Telford?”
“L-l-last night, sir. In my cellars, it was.”
I dropped my fork, startling the serving maid. “Good heavens.”
Holmes waved me to be quiet. “Black Jabez?”
“It’s what they’re calling him, sir. A demon, a vengeful spirit. And he were here, not hours gone.”
Telford’s initial hesitancy gave way to a flood of words. Up early, he had been checking the barrels in the cellar when a whispering came to him. He thought at first that it was from outside, through the gratings to the street. Then a hoarse voice addressed him from the shadows. He turned, and from behind a brick pillar stepped a figure which he could not mistake.
“Tall, he were, sir, and pale as the grave. Chalk white, I should say, with that black hair, and his shirt open so as I could see the bruised mark of the rope around his neck.”
The figure spoke in a rasping voice. All debts would be paid - in a way of Jabez Salt’s choosing.
“‘All debts’ he says, Mr. Holmes. ‘And the dear wife last’. His very words.”
Shocked, Telford had watched as the apparition sank back into the shadows. When the innkeeper dared to step forward, there was a burst of unearthly flame, and Mr. Telford fled. He crept back a half-hour later, but the cellar was empty.
“You should have fetched me at once.” Holmes frowned. “And tell me, why would he appear to you?”
“He owed me greatly, in life.” Telford swallowed. “W-w-wines and spirits. But I don’t want anything - told Mrs. Salt the same.”
“We had best see this cellar of yours.”
To my friend’s frustration, there was little to be found in the depths. Draymen had called before breakfast, rolling barrels and lifting the dust. We prowled the vaulted brick cellar, with Holmes tapping walls and occasionally sliding onto his knees to examine the flagged floor.
“No evident gunpowder or chemical residue,” he remarked.
“The flame?”
“Yes, Watson. I do not believe in hellfire. Not in this mortal realm, at least.” He scraped between the stone flags with his pocket knife, and slipped some of the fine debris into an envelope. “I shall examine this later.”
We parted as planned. Inspector Parry had arranged a cab, and I was driven through the streets of Leeds and up to the forbidding edifice of Armley Gaol. If doomed spirits should ever rise to plague the living, then this would be a likely source. The prison’s grim, turreted mass rose above the city, a Gothic place of hopelessness which made me shiver even as I caught sight of it.
Parry was at the gates, which might as well have “Abandon all hope...” inscribed above them.
As we were let in by stone-faced wardens, he explained that all was ready. “I have special dispensation from the Home Office, by telegram, and the Governor’s permission. Salt, you see, was buried unmarked in the prison yard.” He fretted at his uniform buttons. “My first thought was that Salt had somehow eluded his appointment with the hangman, or survived the execution. It seemed highly unlikely, but...”
“More solid and explicable than an unquiet soul returning to threaten murder.”
“Exactly.”
We found wardens already about the business in the bleak prison yard, their jackets to one side, their sleeves rolled up. Spades cut into the dull clay, which was lifting slowly, though it was hardly long since Salt had been laid there. The Assistant Governor joined us, and I offered my hand.
“John Watson.”
“Pemberton. Bad business, this. I saw Salt put down with my own eyes.”
The three of us watched as the last clods of earth came free, and the men could haul out a plain wooden coffin. They hesitated.
“Let’s get this over with, men.” Pemberton gestured for them to open the coffin, and we stepped forward. Parry tugged the winding cloth aside.
I had seen the newspapers illustrations, and heard many a description. As a lone crow echoed the mood from one of the prison towers, I had no doubt that I was looking on the mortal remains of Jabez Salt. He had a mocking, almost patrician look about him, exaggerated by tightening of the skin. I could even see the section of flesh, the size of a thumbnail, missing from the dessicated ear. All particulars seemed to correspond.
“That is your man,” said Pemberton. “A touch worse for being in the ground; a touch better for being dead.”
I bent over the cadaver. The marks of the rope were there, and other tell-tale signs.
“Fractured cervical spine, with severance of the spinal column.” I rotated the head to one side, and lifted the chin. “I would say that death was instantaneous.”
“It was,” said Pemberton. “So, Dr. Watson, you are satisfied that this is Jabez Salt?”
“I am.”
The theory, that of Salt surviving to plague his wife and others, did not hold water. Which could only fuel talk of a supernatural explanation.
Back at the waiting cab, the policeman took hold of my arm. “Dr. Watson - is it possible? That Salt’s spirit is truly abroad in the night, seeking revenge?”
I blew out my cheeks, and tried to sound more cheerful than I felt. “Holmes will not have it so.”
Parry sighed. “Then we must hope for some rational conclusion.”
“If there is one, Holmes will find it.” I could at least be confident on that score.
When I returned to the inn, I found that Holmes was out, but a note was pinned to my door. I was requested to run an errand to the nearby photographic shop, and beg the use of an enlarging apparatus. There was no explanation as to why.
Two doors down from the bakery stood Cartwright and Sons, which announced itself as catering to social engagements and personal requests. The building, whose tiled roof sagged with the weight of moss upon it, was clearly far older than the business. Inside, it was dim and smelled of chemicals. Various samples of their work adorned the walls - portraits of children with kittens, solemn groups, and one or two of what seemed like carnival shots from Woodhouse Moor.
A pale young man with dark, foppish hair looked up from the counter.
“May I help you, sir?”
I explained what was required and dropped Holmes’s name into the conversation, knowing that most folk became excited to think they might be only one remove from the famous detective.
The young man’s eyes widened. “Does he seek the great Jabez Salt, sir?”
“Great?” I frowned. “An utter cad, from what I hear.”
There was an unctuous touch to the assistant’s bob of his head. “Oh indeed, sir. But fame is fame, however gained, my father says.”
He promised that he would procure what was needed from the “laboratory”, as he called it. As I waited for him to return, I noticed some of the photographs in the shadows, away from regular scrutiny. They were of that fashion which I found distasteful - the recent dead posed as the living, alone or with relatives. Mary shared my view, though she accepted it might give comfort to some. I found the practice simply morbid.
“Here you are, sir.” The assistant held a heavy device in his hands, bellows and brass casings attached to a lantern. All were mounted on a varnished wooden base. “I pray Mr. Holmes will take care with it.”
I smiled. “We are virtually across the road from you. I will have it back by the end of the day, I am sure. What deposit should I leave?”
He looked astonished. “For Mr. Holmes of Baker Street? Why, sir, we would not hear of it.”
I thanked him, and carried my prize cradled in my arms, nervous until I had it deposited in our snug. My friend had returned, and was scrutinising a newspaper.
“Ah, Watson. Efficient, as usual. You have the device.”
“Are we entering the photographic trade, Holmes?”
“Hardly. Set it down, dear chap.”
I did so, and Holmes immediately began to dismantle it.
“I say, this is only on loan...”
He lifted out a lens in a brass ring. “This is all I need, lacking my usual equipment. But tell me, I assume Jabez Salt was where he was supposed to be?”
“I’m afraid so.”
He nodded. “I would have surprised if it had been otherwise.”
“But his spirit-”
“Is wherever spirits go, not gliding around Woodhouse Moor. Had Francis Morton been killed by some inexplicable malignity, or found glassy-eyed, his face a mask of fear, pointing at the wall, well, that would have been interesting. I do not believe that repeated knife wounds to the abdomen represent the results of a haunting.”
He held up the lens to the light. “What did you make of the photographic shop, Watson?”
“I... I don’t know that I made much of it at all. The assistant is one of those damp types, needs a brisk country walk. Mind you, he knew your name.”
“But not my face.” Holmes had a mischievous look. “I was in earlier today, enquiring about a group photograph for myself and my elderly aunts.”
“Then why have me-”
“We are a partnership, Watson. You noticed the samples on the walls?”
Like a boy at school, I recited all that I could recall.
Holmes broke into open laughter. “Why, Watson, you improve with every day.”
“You do not fault my observations, then?”
“Not at all. Now, let me think a while, there’s a good fellow. There are threads to be gathered.”
No wiser, I decided to visit the newly-chartered university, not far from Woodhouse Moor, and call in on my peers at the Medical School there. I returned around dinner time (which confusingly appeared to be called tea time in the north). Holmes was reading a monograph, something to do with ferns.
“Honestly, Holmes, should we not be out there, seeking signs of Salt, or doing something practical?”
He sprang to his feet. “We shall be, my dear chap. I awaited only your return.”
Mollified, I followed him out of the inn and down Hyde Park Road. It was still light, but with cloud and a spatter of rain. We went directly to No. 83, and were let in by a police constable. Genevieve Salt and Inspector Parry awaited us.
She stood up as we entered. “You have an answer, Mr. Holmes?”
“I have, madam. Or believe so.”
“Then the apparition...”
“Was designed to create exactly the effect it did. However, to flush the culprit out, we will need you to put yourself in danger.”
“I already feel in danger - can it be worse? But I hold you to your word, that this is the work of man. For I have heard my late husband speak, and seen his damnable face.”
“That,” said Holmes, “May be the crux of the matter. The affair in the innkeeper’s cellar was most instructive.”
“Some kind of projected image?” Parry looked excited, but Holmes would not elaborate.
“You must trust me, Inspector.”
“And I shall be the goat tethered out for the tiger,” said Mrs. Salt.
He bowed his head. “I am afraid that the metaphor is apt, madam - if we wish to take our ‘ghost’ red-handed, so to speak. The case will be more swiftly concluded for it.”
“I understand.”
I thought her courage admirable, under the circumstances.
“How do you know that Jabez Salt will appear?” asked Parry.
Holmes beamed. “Because I am here, Inspector. The incident in the cellar was for me - why perform over a liquor bill, a matter of a few cases or bottles? That show was to get my interest, and to embroider the growing rumours.”
“He grows notorious,” I said. “A week of these tales, and he will be in every paper, not merely The Leeds Mercury.”
My friend clapped me on the shoulder.
“Exactly, Watson.”
A thought occurred to me concerning Holmes’s plan. “But was not Inspector Parry himself threatened in Salt’s last words? Why should this, this whatever it is, be drawn out by Mrs. Salt?”
“I believe that we have precipitated matters. He will not have the patience to wait for a moment where the
inspector is unguarded - a difficult target. Tonight your constables must keep watch, and the following night we shall attempt to snare our prey.”
Holmes and I returned to the inn, and I spend a restless evening wondering what Holmes had in mind.
The morning edition of the Mercury carried an exclusive piece, by arrangement. It stated that despite public anxiety, the murder of Francis Morton appeared to be an isolated incident by a burglar, disturbed when about his business. Genevieve Salt was no longer considered to be at risk, and the police were diverting most of their resources to seeking the burglar, believed not to be local.
“A convincing quote or two from Parry,” said Holmes. “A sound officer. He puts some our own metropolitan detectives to shame.”
“And what do you think will happen tonight, Holmes? An attempt on Mrs. Salt’s life?”
“A more dire warning will be delivered, I think, but it is possible he may go further.”
“What if something happens during the day? There was the voice heard on the tram...”
Holmes shrugged. “Unlikely. That was a little side-act to deepen the drama.”
“But you will not tell me who the perpetrator is, if this is not the spirit of Jabez Salt?”
“Watson, you have seen all but one piece of evidence. And besides, I might be wrong.” He gave one of his self-satisfied smiles,
“Hmmph.” I checked my revolver, and asked no more.
The day was idle, except that Holmes communicated with Parry, and afterwards asked me to return the enlarging apparatus. A woman was leading a red-faced child out of the door, and I edged past. An older man stood at the counter, polishing the wooden casing of an expensive camera.
“Good day,” I said, and placed the enlarger down. “Your assistant was so kind as to lend this to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. If you would examine it to ensure that all is well-”