by Bill Crider
I paced, until my shoes threatened to wear ruts in the sidewalk. I wanted desperately to turn around and return to my own home, have a brisk shot of brandy and slide between the cool sheets of my bed. What I most emphatically did not want was to see my relationship with Holmes tainted by the appearance of insanity. Still, there was nothing for it but to plunge ahead, and I finally dashed for the door in desperation, wanting to reach it before my traitorous feet turned away yet again. Before I could raise my hand to the door knocker, the door swung inward, and I found myself stumbling to a clumsy halt, staring into the grinning countenance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
“Do come in, Watson,” Holmes said with a twinkle in his eye that set my cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Another few paces and you’ll wear the leather from your soles.” As he took in my own expression, Holmes grew more serious, and he closed the door quickly behind us, taking my coat.
“I’m terribly sorry about the hour, Holmes,” I blurted, “but the matter simply can’t wait.”
“I gathered from the odd slant of your hat and the mismatching of buttons that this was a matter of some importance,” he replied. He turned and disappeared into his study, and I hurried to catch up with him. When I reached the dimly lit room, he was already in his chair, legs stretched out before him and his fingers pressed together under his chin. “So tell me what brings you out so late on a cold night.”
“I’ve come to offer you a new client, Holmes.”
“But you’ve come alone. Who, then, would your client be?”
I watched him for a moment, steepling his fingers and staring at me, eyes twinkling. I knew he had already deduced my reply, but I made it anyway. “It is I, Holmes. This time, it is I who seeks your aid.”
The skin around his eyes drew taut and his lips pursed. “Very well, Watson. Why don’t you sit down, take a brandy, and tell me your story.”
I sat back, closed my eyes, and let the events of the evening flow back into my consciousness, telling the tale as best I could. I knew any detail I left out, or forgot, might prove the one thing Holmes needed to see through it all as nonsense, so I was careful. The brandy helped. This is the tale I told.
It was but a few hours ago when a knock came at my door. It was later than I was accustomed to accepting callers. I immediately assumed it to be you, Holmes. Who else would call on me at such an hour? My heart quickened at the thought of adventure, and I hastened to open the door.
The man who met my gaze was gaunt, tall and weathered as if he’d spent long years on the deck of a ship, or working a farm. His complexion was dark, and his coat clung to him like a shroud. I could make out two others standing directly behind him in the gloom.
“Dr. Watson,” he asked, his voice sharp and edgy.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” I countered. “I’m Watson, and you are? My God, man, do you know the time?”
“I am well aware of the time,” the man answered. “My business with you cannot wait.”
The man held forth a sheet of paper, pressing it toward my nose as if I could read it in the dark. “Did you sign this?” he asked sharply.
“I can’t see what it is from here,” I said. “Step inside Mr. …”
“Jepson,” he said, stepping hurriedly through the doorway. “Aaron Jepson. My companions are Mr. Sebastian Jeffries and …well, read the paper, and you may see who else accompanies me.”
I knew I should have told the man to return by daylight, but I’d invited them in, and the deed was done. I glanced at the other two, who remained silent. The first was a white haired old chap with ruddy features and wide, bulging eyes. His cheeks were overly full, making his lip drape oddly downward. I didn’t know him. The third wore a dark coat, as did Jepson, and a hat pulled down to hide the features of his face.
I glanced back to the paper and began to read. It was a death certificate. I had signed it only a week before, pronouncing one Michael Adcott dead of a knife to the back. Mr. Adcott had been out too late in the wrong part of town, and apparently someone had fancied his wallet a bit more than he himself.
“What has this to do with any of you?” I asked bluntly.
“Mr. Jeffries,” the first man explained, “is my solicitor. I should say, he is my cousin’s solicitor. I’m not certain if you would have been told, but there was a sizeable investment—a tontine—involved in the death. Michael was one of only two surviving members of the tontine, and upon the declaration of his death, the courts moved to deliver the tontine’s assets to a Mr. Emil Laroche.
“I knew of no tontine,” I said, “but I see no way I can help you in such a matter. Mr. Adcott died, and as I understand such arrangements, that would indicate that the courts were in the right.”
“So you say,” Jepson said, “and yet, you would be—for the second time this week—mistaken.”
I blinked at him. “Mistaken? How …”
Jepson held up a hand, then turned to his third companion.
“Michael?”
My heart nearly stopped. The man removed his hat slowly, staring at me through eyes I’d seen glazed and closed so few days in the past. He didn’t seem to see me, not really, and yet he reacted to Jepson’s words with perfect understanding. The dazed, haunted expression of those eyes burned into my mind, and I had to shake my head to clear the sensation of—something—something dark and deep. Something wrong.
“This is quite impossible,” I stated. “There is no way this can be the same Michael Adcott that I examined earlier in the week. That man had sustained a direct stab wound to the back, penetrating a lung, and he lay dead in the street at least an hour before I arrived on the scene. There was a constable on the spot, Johnston was his name.”
“And yet,” Jepson said, holding up one hand to silence me, “Michael Adcott stands and breathes before you, a very alive, and suddenly destitute man. Only your intervention, Dr. Watson, can prevent a horrid miscarriage of justice.”
This was a strange situation, to be certain, but I fancy that I’ve acquitted myself well in any number of odd happenings over the years. Without hesitation, I stepped closer and stared at the man before me. He wavered back and forth, as if his legs barely held him upright, and I squinted, trying to find some fault between my memory of the dead man, and he who’d disturbed my evening.
“Impossible,” I muttered, stepping back. “Preposterous.”
Jepson eyed me coldly. “And yet, a fact that is difficult to deny, I suspect,” he said shortly.
At this, the plump man, who’d remained silent until that moment, stepped forward, fumbling a monocle from his breast pocket and perching it on the bridge of his nose with a palsied hand. The lens teetered, and I was nearly certain it would drop from its perch before he could steady it, but miraculously the man got it under control. He lifted a small sheaf of papers, bringing them closer so he could glance at them through the lens.
“It would seem,” he spoke, the words slow and forced, “that we have a situation before us requiring the utmost in haste and discretion.”
“You would be Mr. Jeffries,” I stated, not waiting for an answer. “I would expect, sir, that of all gathered here you would be first to note the absurdity of the claim lain before me. Dead men do not pry themselves from the grave, no matter the fiscal windfall it might provide themselves or others. This man cannot be Michael Adcott.”
Jeffries glanced up from his papers quickly, nearly sending the monocle flying. “I assure you, Dr. Watson, that he is. I have served the Adcotts for the past twenty years as solicitor, and I know my client when he stands before me.”
“Which would lead me to believe, sir, that you have mistakenly pronounced Mr. Adcott dead.” Jepson folded his hands in front of him and peered down his nose at me.
I must say that I would rather admit to an error in judgment than to the possibility of the walking dead. All evidence and proof aside, I needed them gone just then.
“Return here tomorrow at four sharp and I’ll have the answers you seek,” I told them,
shoving the papers at Jepson and marching them forward.
Holmes had grown contemplative, his eyes were focused, but not, I think, on any point in the reality we shared. Leaning forward in my chair, hands on my knees, I gazed at him anxiously and finished.
“With the house again empty and my heart still beating a savage rhythm in my chest, I could think of only one thing to do, and that was bring the matter to you.”
Holmes eyes shifted, and he rose suddenly. “And well you did, my dear Watson, well you did indeed.”
He was already walking toward the door, wearing an uncharacteristically distracted expression.
“I must see to some things, Watson,” he said suddenly. “And you must rest, old friend. When the sun has risen a little higher in the sky, we shall see what we can find.”
“But, have you no thoughts on this matter?” I cried.
“Thoughts are often all that we have, Watson. There is nothing that I can say for certain, but I do have—thoughts. That is for tomorrow. Go and get some rest.”
With that, he opened the door, and I could think of nothing to say or do, other than to stumble out into the night and off toward home, wondering if my old friend now thought me daft. The sky had already stained a deep, blood-red with the sunrise.
Jepson glanced furtively to either side, then slipped through a massive wooden door and into the depths of the squat, monolithic building beyond. The exterior was dingy brick, even the soot and grime seemed soiled, and there was an oily sheen to the place, gleaming sickly in the early morning light.
He carried a case under one arm, and he’d come on foot. No coach waited outside that door, nor did any spot his entry. There had been precious little traffic through those doors in recent years, and what there was, men tended to ignore. Such knowledge was best left to others, or to no one at all. It was a dark place, and the screams of those who’d entered and never been freed echoed through the air surrounding the place like a hum of electricity. So it seemed to some.
The Asylum of St. Elian had been closed for reasons never released to the public. There were rumors of dark experiments, of torture and sin, but they were not often repeated, and usually died before reaching the level of a good story. There was nothing good in the building, and if it hadn’t required actual contact with the place, most would have been happy to wield one of the hammers that brought it down.
Jepson had found no trouble at all in renting a portion of the fading edifice, and with Jeffries handling the legalities and paperwork, had managed to do so with near anonymity, the solicitor having been granted the right to sign on Jepson’s behalf. The laboratory of St. Elian’s, and the ward nearest that foul place, had come under Jepson’s control easily and without contest. Even the homeless and the drunks had avoided the place. It was empty and lifeless as a tomb, and that suited Aaron Jepson just fine.
Now he made his way down the dark main corridor and fumbled a large skeleton key from one pocket of his jacket, balancing the leather case precariously under one arm. He’d cleaned up as much as was possible—or necessary—but the old lock ground its metal tumblers together in a sound near to disbelief at the intrusion of his key. St. Elians hadn’t welcomed him gladly.
Once inside, Jepson wasted no time. He moved about the room, bringing the dim lights to life and placing the wooden case carefully on a bench just inside the door. The laboratory was much as he’d found it. There had been a great deal of equipment left behind when the building closed, and none had felt the urge to return and clear it away. The thought of the use it might have seen was enough to slap away even the greediest of fingers. Jepson had carted in, late at night and under cloak of the deep London fog, the last remaining bits of what he’d dragged from his father’s home—his inheritance.
Despite the hum and glow of the lamps, shadows clung like swamp lichen to every surface and bit of furniture. Jepson shivered, then, irritated with himself, drew forth a box of matches and lit the large oil lamp on the table beside his case. Turning up the wick, he watched as the flame licked upward, flared, and settled. Standing in the pool of light this created, he felt a little of the spell of the unease lifting and drew a deep breath.
There was little time, and there was no room for delays, or hesitation. Jepson flipped open the case and stared down at the contents. The interior was lined in rich velvet. In slots manufactured to accommodate their exact shape and size, a line of six vials rested. The first three were empty. In the next two slots, a greenish liquid roiled. It was not quiescent, as it should have been, sitting still on the table. It swirled and curled toward the edges of the vial, reaching up the sides and falling back down—as if trying to escape. The third and last of the vials contained a flat red powder. Jepson stared for a few moments longer, as if mesmerized.
Then, as if recovering his senses, he reached for the next full vial and drew it forth, along with the third vial, containing the powder.
With one deft movement of his thumbs, he uncapped both vials. Inside the first, green, liquid and light, the solution ceased its movement. He tilted the second, angling the lip of it toward the first, tapping gently, mentally ticking off grains of the powder. The green liquid devoured it, changing color slightly, then regaining its normal appearance almost as though the powder had been—digested. He re-capped both vials, and returned the sandy substance to its place in the wooden case.
To the right of the case, further along the bench, sat an open carton. Jepson carefully laid the vial down beside the box and reached inside, drawing forth a small leather bag. It might have been easier to work had he unpacked his things, but there was something about the old laboratory, and the asylum walls surrounding it, that made even Jepson want to avoid deeper connection with the place than was absolutely necessary. The less he unpacked, the less he’d have to pack when his work was done.
Jepson opened the bag and pulled out a small kit. The kit contained a syringe, a bottle of alcohol, and a small pouch of glittering blades and tools. He grabbed the syringe, which sported a hideously long needle, picked up the vials once again, and turned toward the door.
At that precise moment, a low moan echoed through the corridors beyond that door, and Jepson froze. The sound was deep, rolling up from the stone bowels of the asylum and rising to a banshee wail that reverberated and echoed back onto itself, forming waves of sound without rhythm or reason. The sound was drenched in pain.
Jepson staggered, bringing one hand to his brow to brush away the sweat and nearly poking out his own eye with the syringe. He cried out, ducking away from this own hand, and cursed softly.
“Damn you,” he said softly. “It’s too soon. I should have hours.” He stared at the doorway, and the dark, shadowed hall beyond. “I should have hours,” he whispered.
The moans rose again, louder than before, and there was a deep metallic clang. He could almost believe the solid stone floor shook.
Under his breath, Aaron Jepson began to pray. He prayed in the ancient Hebrew, the words he’d committed to memory, the charm his father had brought to him from the mind and faith of his grandfather and his grandfather’s father. He thought of the ancient, torn shred of canvas, soiled and worn, the spidery lettering etched into that cloth. With his eyes closed, he could see those letters burning brightly—as if they had a life of their own. He could sense the madness behind the verse, could almost see the wild, skewed eyes. He had heard them described so many times they seemed part of his own memory, and not that of his father’s father.
Jepson spoke slowly and very softly, trying not to blend his voice with that other—that horrible, hate-filled sound.
Entering the hall, he took a single deep breath, released some of the pressure he was putting on the vial before he crushed it in his hand, puncturing his skin. Fresh sweat broke out on his brow at the thought of that green, glowing slime slipping into his veins. He had a sudden image of the case in the laboratory behind him, the vials and the thick velvet. This led to further memories, journals and stories—stories that w
ould be impossible to believe—were the proof not waiting one floor down in a stone room barred with iron.
Jepson shook it off and stepped into the hallway, moving quickly and purposefully toward the sound. Nothing mattered but the vial in his hand, the syringe that would empty it, and the words. He had to speak the words, had to repeat them from memory, just as he’d learned them, or it would all be for nothing. The madness that echoed through the halls would become his own, and the money … all that money.
There were dim lights strung along the hall, leading down a wide stone stair, and into the shadows below. Jespon took the steps at a trot, ignoring the sounds, which had grown to a constant shriek of madness and a grinding rattle of metal. As he went, he grasped the syringe tightly and plunged it into the lid of the vial. His footsteps grew quicker, and the heaving of his breath threatened to steal the words from his lips, but he couldn’t wait any longer. It had to be now, and it had to be quick.
He hit the bottom step, stumbled, righted himself and hurried down the hall. The sounds were close now, immediate and maddening. To his right, barred doorways loomed, cells that had lain empty for long years, their iron doors latched and rusted. He passed the first two cells without a glance, but as he came abreast of the third, he slowed, backing toward the center of the hall. Fingers gripped the bars of that third cell, long and sinewy—strong. The bars shook again.
Jepson took a step closer, raising the syringe like a dagger over his head. The words flowed from his lips, but he had no more control of them now than he did of the tremble in his wrist, or the rubbery sensation that threatened to deny him use of his legs. He slipped toward the barred door, and suddenly a face slammed into it, too-wide eyes glaring at him, framed in wild, unkempt hair. The skin was sallow and pale and the bars shook harder than they had before, threatening to tear loose from the stone of the walls.
