by David Marcum
“I cannot say exactly when the events began,” she continued, “for they do not manifest within the house itself. Or, at least, not to my knowledge. Gwen once saw something in the room, but I have not.”
“The room?” asked Holmes. His eyes had closed, giving the impression of a man gently dozing before the fire. Only his fingers moved, tapping upon his chair’s arms to a secret rhythm.
“At the front of the house, on its right corner, there is a smallish room with a single window overlooking the street. It was conceivably designed to function as a nursery, but my husband had plans to create a compact library. It is this room which seems to be the focus of the events.” She took a careful sip of tea.
“At some point in the past months, passers-by began to see a figure at the window. Faint, translucent, difficult to discern clearly. I do not know how much time passed before a neighbour commented upon the mirage. Since then I have observed it myself on six occasions.”
“And what form does this... mirage take?” asked Holmes.
“It is of a single figure - dark, as though dressed formally. It moves about, apparently pacing the room, sometimes retreating from the window, at other times staring out.”
“But you have never seen this figure within the room?” I asked.
“Only Gwen, as I have said. She entered one morning with a mind to cleaning the empty bookshelves and saw a dark shape which turned and stared at her before fading. Her impression was that of a man.”
“A man?” Holmes repeated.
Mrs. Trecoming bit her lip but did not reply.
“Madam, I expect you to be brutally honest with me. You fear this shade may be that of your late husband?”
“Mr. Holmes, I have already explained I have no faith in the concept of earth-bound spirits-”
“-While you find yourself compelled to believe otherwise,” said Holmes. “Very well. You say this was during the morning. Have you seen the image in the window at similar times?”
“No, Mr. Holmes. Only during the hours of darkness.”
My friend’s eyes snapped open. “Excellent!” said he. “This dark figure at the window. Does it glide, or float?”
“No. Its movements are quite natural. It walks and gestures. It is too faint to be sure, but I have the impression that it is speaking.”
Holmes clapped his hands together. “I have one more question, Mrs. Trecoming. You say your sister moved up from Bath. Does your family come from there?”
“Gwen and I hail from Bath. My husband was a Bristol man. After our marriage, we moved to lodgings in London so that he might take up a post as a clerk at Graveby’s Bank. We moved to Dulwich as his position improved.”
“Excellent,” Holmes repeated. “Mrs. Trecoming, I am afraid that I am presently involved in a case which prevents me from immediately taking on your own. However, it should be quickly resolved to my satisfaction, so may I call on you in two days? For the moment, I perceive no threat to you or your sister.”
She stood, a look of hope in her large eyes. “Mr. Holmes, your words assure me. I look forward to your visit.”
My friend also came to his feet. “The world is a wild and strange place, with many wonders. It is rarely necessary to invoke spirits and shades to explain them. I only wonder, why did you come to me initially, and not a man of the cloth?”
Her smile was brave, and I fancy I saw colour returning to her waxen cheeks. “Because I have no wish to accede to superstition, Mr. Holmes. I assure you, the clergy would be my final resort.”
I escorted her out to Baker Street and a waiting cab. When I returned, Holmes was once again seated, sucking on his wretched pipe. I poured myself more tea.
“And what other case is so urgent it prevents you leaving immediately? I was under the impression you have been idle these past weeks.”
“There is no rush, friend Watson. The woman is in no present danger - and I fear the announcement of our imminent arrival might persuade this ghostly figure to temporarily take flight.” His lips quirked in a transient smile.
“I trust boredom hasn’t persuaded you to leap at the first case which presents itself. Ghosts and apparitions - it’s quite unlike you, Holmes. More what I would expect to read from the likes of Le Fanu or Bulwer-Lytton.”
“Your breadth of knowledge concerning modern literature astounds me, Watson.” He shook his head. “My assurances to Mrs. Trecoming were not mere platitudes. I am satisfied that I have a sound avenue of research. The connection to Bath, coupled with the phenomenon’s explicitly nocturnal activity, is most suggestive.”
Happy that my friend had something on which to ponder for a while, I readied myself to leave. “Let me know when you will be visiting Mrs. Trecoming. To my knowledge, I have never seen a ghost.”
He removed the pipe from his mouth. “No need to rush, Watson. We will be travelling down to Camberwell shortly. I fancy it will be just dark enough for our spectre by the time we arrive.”
Holmes was perfectly correct. Alighting from our cab, we stood in a street already enclosed by evening. The cheery glow from regularly-placed street lamps held back the darkness, whilst the silhouetted rows of houses were punctuated by lit windows. Save for Holmes, myself and the cab, the streets were empty.
My friend instructed the cabbie to await us, irrespective of how long we should be gone. Huddled against the night’s cold, we made our way to Cherry Road.
No. 187 was certainly a large dwelling for just two ladies. Elaborately gabled in a mock Gothic style, it contrasted starkly with the modest terraces running along the opposite side of the road, where we stood. A low wall ran the breadth of a small garden which was still dormant from the winter months. A simple brick arch framed the front gate. The area of which Mrs. Trecoming had spoken was obvious: Close to the corner, small and mullioned, opening only via an awning window across the top. Below it was an equally small ground floor window. Up to that moment I had entertained a vague notion of someone climbing up to the “haunted” room, but it was clear such an action would be too obvious and all but impossible.
“What do you expect to see, Holmes?” I enquired.
He glanced about. This road was no busier than the one in which our cab stood. “We provide an audience, Watson. Mrs. Trecoming indicated that the phenomenon reveals itself to passers-by. In light of the evening’s quiet, I fear we must deliver our own.”
And so it was. Holmes and I began to patrol Cherry Road, sometimes together, often separately, changing direction and the intervals by which we passed the house. Of all the streets in that borough, I fancy Cherry Road was the most travelled that night.
Over half-an-hour passed. I began to think that whatever the good people of East Dulwich had seen - Mrs. Trecoming herself on six occasions - it would not be gracing Holmes and myself with its presence that night. Then, I discerned a movement at the particular window as I approached.
“Holmes!” I cried. He was approaching along the opposite pavement, running his stick on the low garden wall.
“I see it!” Swiftly, he joined me. In silence we stared up at the small window, and the bizarre drama enacted through it.
There was a dark figure indeed, indistinct and transparent. I could well imagine it to be the representation of a soberly dressed gentleman. It moved across the window, flickering in an odd manner, as though it might wink out of existence at any moment. For all its strangeness, its actions looked natural and considered - as though the shade conversed with someone deeper inside the room, not visible from the window. After a minute it paused, appearing to gaze through the mullioned glass, and disappeared.
Holmes laughed shortly, lighting a cigarette. “Did you see it, Watson? Remarkable!”
I lit a cigarette of my own. I confess that I was shaken, until that moment quite convinced that whatever we might see should prove to be material and distinctly
of this world. I was no longer so assured.
“Indeed. But what did I see?”
“In the morning, my dear fellow, in the morning. We shall return tomorrow and visit Mrs. Trecoming, when I am confident all shall be resolved. You will sleep at Baker Street, of course...”
I awoke refreshed. After shaving and dressing, I left my bedroom to find an excellent breakfast laid out by Mrs. Hudson, and Holmes languishing on his chair, showing no indication that he had gone to bed. I poured coffee for us both.
“Have you not slept?” I asked, handing a cup to Holmes. He stared at it as though only now aware of its existence.
“I needed to think,” said he, waving a languid hand in the direction of his assembled files. “And to reacquaint myself with a few details. I am confident I have the facts aligned exactly against Mrs. Trecoming’s experiences.” He drank deeply of his coffee. “It is a remarkably mundane case, after all.”
“I am glad to hear you say so.” I helped myself to toast and cracked open a boiled egg. “Then you have no reason not to partake of breakfast.”
After filling ourselves, we once more took a cab down to Camberwell. This morning we halted immediately outside No. 187. As the cab rolled away, I noticed how much more lively Cherry Road was in daylight, even if it was nothing compared to the bustle of Baker Street. Holmes paused by the small front gate.
“Observe, friend Watson.” He gestured at the street.
For a moment I did not see it - then realisation came. We were the only persons standing close to Mrs. Trecoming’s house. Passers-by crossed the road to give it as wide a berth as possible. Few even so much as glanced its way, or at us. Those who did nodded a hasty good morning before hurrying on.
“No. 187 appears to be the focus of a degree of fear,” I commented.
“Indeed.” Holmes tapped at his lips with a forefinger. “Clearly it is working,” he added, cryptically.
We made our way to the front door and Holmes rang the bell. It was answered by a florid-faced woman in apron and mob cap. She squinted at us both with suspicion.
Holmes removed his hat. “Would I be correct in thinking you are the sister of Mrs. Trecoming? Miss Gwen Westgate?”
“And you are?” Her voice was underscored with a faint but unmistakable burr.
Holmes presented her with his card. “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is Doctor Watson. Your sister called on me yesterday, in regard to... certain activities.”
The woman stared at us both for a moment longer before standing aside and allowing us to enter. “Vi!” she called. “It’s Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
We were shown into a spacious parlour which, although sparsely furnished, was supremely elegant in its simplicity. Mrs. Trecoming’s sister took our hats and overcoats.
The widow herself entered the room. Uncluttered by her feathered hat, the resemblance to the more florid woman at her side was obvious. She looked a little confused.
“Mr. Holmes,” said she. “Doctor. I was not expecting you so soon...”
“My previous business was concluded with greater despatch than I had anticipated,” replied Holmes, smoothly. “I trust my arrival is not inconvenient.”
She shook her head. “Not at all, sir.” She turned to her sister. “Gwen, would you be good enough to make tea - ?”
Holmes interrupted. “Thank you, no. Will you show us instead to the room in question?”
For a moment Mrs. Trecoming stared at him. “If you wish.” She stepped from the parlour and Holmes and I followed, Miss Westgate in our wake.
We climbed a narrow staircase which doubled back on itself to reach the first floor. Turning right on a small landing, Mrs. Trecoming led us along a brief corridor. At the end was a single door. It opened onto a square room, the unadorned walls of which were partially lined with incomplete shelving. Facing us was a familiar window of mullioned glass.
Holmes crossed the room and opened the awning window, giving himself a clear view of the terraces opposite.
“Do you know who lives there?” he asked, indicating the house directly across the road.
“This is a very fluid neighbourhood, Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Trecoming. “Houses are constantly put up for sale, families moving in and out as their fortunes wax or wane.”
“I believe someone recently took up residence,” added her sister. She stood beyond the room, giving every indication that she would go no further. “Although I do not believe either of us has seen them. Is it important?”
Holmes grunted and fastened the window again. “Miss Westgate, you claim to have seen something in this room-”
“It is no claim!” she bridled.
Holmes’s lips twitched. “As you wish. Then where exactly was this apparition?”
“Much where you are standing now, close to the window. It turned and faced me, giving me such a look. A moment later, it was gone.”
“And did you recognise it?”
Miss Westgate’s gaze flickered from Holmes, to her sister and back. “It was very quick, and very faint,” she replied in a muted voice. “But I fancy it was Vi’s late husband, Hubert...”
Mrs. Trecoming gasped.
“I didn’t want to upset you, Vi! Besides, I couldn’t be sure-”
Holmes emitted a sharp laugh. “Ha! Capital!”
Both sisters stared at him. “You find our trials amusing, Mr. Holmes?” said Miss Westgate, her face colouring.
Holmes’s expression worked as he suppressed another smile. “I have nothing but compassion for Mrs. Trecoming. My amusement is reserved for your performance. It is quite remarkable.”
“Sir!” Miss Westgate stiffened, her face flooded with anger.
Holmes pressed on, apparently unmoved by the woman’s outburst. “Tell me, Miss Westgate, if Watson and I should gain access to the house opposite - No. 184, I believe - what might we find in the first floor room facing this house?”
“I’m sure I do not know!”
“Well. Shall we leave that discovery for later?” He fixed both women with a glance. “Does the name William Friese-Green mean anything to you?”
“Nothing,” said Miss Westgate.
Mrs. Trecoming looked at her sister. “But, Gwen, surely he is that photographer? The one dear Hubert spoke of more than once.”
I admit the name chimed with me, also. “Didn’t he invent some kind of superior magic lantern?”
“Quite,” said Holmes. “The Biophantascope. And a man of Bath, Miss Westgate. I am surprised you do not recall him.”
“I have no time for such things.”
“And yet your sister, who has been away from Bath longer than you, knows the name.” He looked in my direction. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks, Watson.”
Miss Westgate, her lips thinning, backed away from the doorway.
“I would appreciate it if you stayed, Miss Westgate,” snapped Holmes. “Flight would be, at this stage, an admission of guilt.”
Mrs. Trecoming stared at her sister. “Gwen? What does he mean?”
For a moment, Miss Westgate seemed determined to cling on to her defiance. Then her shoulders drooped as her face crumpled. Yet she remained silent.
“Mrs. Trecoming, I am afraid you have been the victim of a cruel hoax,” spoke Holmes. “That your ghostly images were seen only at night, and from outside, was suggestive. That your sister was the only person who claimed to have seen anything within the confines of this room equally suggestive. She was, of course, alone at the time. The connection to Bath merely heightened my suspicions. I repeat my earlier question, Miss Westgate: What might we expect to find in the facing upstairs room of the house opposite?”
“I imagine you already know the answer to that question.” Now the rage was gone from her, Miss Westgate was cowed and sullen.
“I wo
uld prefer to hear it from your own lips. Full disclosure is your best course, for although your actions - and those of your accomplice - have been cruel, they may not, so far, be criminal.”
The woman drew herself up, taking sustenance from my friend’s words. “There is a remarkable mechanism - a camera - capable of projecting moving images.”
“A development of the work Friese-Green began with John Rudge?”
“If you say so.”
“Moving pictures, Mr. Holmes?” Mrs. Trecoming was incredulous. “But how?”
“It is not an entirely new science,” said Holmes. “Last year, Le Prince himself photographed the first moving pictures in Leeds. It is my understanding that Friese-Green has been experimenting with celluloid in his Bath studio.”
“I have never known you to take an interest in the photographic arts,” I remarked.
“I make a point of taking many journals, Watson, including Photographic News and Scientific American. I remove that which I find useful and discard the rest. As science progresses, you can be sure the enterprising criminal is not far behind. It pays to be fully conversant with its inexorable march.”
“And last night - ?”
“-I reacquainted myself with the relevant details.”
“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Trecoming. “What has this to do with me?”
“You are a widow,” said Holmes, “living alone in a desirable residence. You said yourself you have no plans to leave, yet it is clear your sister has designs of her own on the property. All that was required was a means to make you quit the place voluntarily - such as being haunted by your late husband.”
“No!” She turned to her sister. “It can’t be true! Gwen - tell me so!”
Miss Westgate remained silent, condemning herself.
“You are a decisively rational woman, Mrs. Trecoming,” continued Holmes. “An attack on that rationality was clearly the plan. Your sister cultivated a male friend, one who had worked alongside Friese-Green and could replicate his research. She moved in with you - ostensibly to give you comfort - but in reality watching for the moment when the house opposite was put up for sale. The moment it did so, her male friend purchased it, installed his equipment, and the phenomena began.”