A Study in Brimstone

by G. S. Denning

  “It does, Watson. Oh, it does.”

  “After you had read enough poems to turn your mind from generalship to demonics, you suddenly gasped and stared in amazement at the portrait of Robert E. Lee which hangs above our bookshelf—for reasons I still do not understand.”

  “His was the picture that came in the frame when I purchased it, Watson.”

  “Ah—mystery solved. After staring for some time with your mouth hanging wide, you ran to the desk and began sketching another version of the same portrait, wherein the general has horns, fangs, a tail and slitted snake eyes. You then gave a cry of triumph and threw down your pencil as if you had proven a great truth, at which point I chose to inform you that Robert E. Lee was not a demon. Now do you see how observation led me to that deduction?”

  “But it looks just like him!”

  “Of course it does—you drew it to look just like him. This does not prove—”

  The ringing of our bell cut me off.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  From behind our closed front door, Mrs. Hudson’s voice said, “A gentleman to see Mr. Holmes.” Judging by her breathy tone, I imagined it must be an attractive gentleman indeed—perhaps worthy of inclusion in one of her smutty novels.

  “Enter,” said I.

  Warlock gave me an angry glance and flew back to his desk. He flung a book over his devilish sketch, still certain he had discovered a secret that must be guarded from the eyes of the common man. The door swung open to reveal Mrs. Hudson hanging from our guest’s left arm in a half-swoon. She might have fallen in love on the strength of his facial hair alone, for our visitor wore a dashing moustache, such as one might find in the circus or on certain cavalry officers. He held himself with a feminine reserve and a demure, almost subservient air, yet his upper body bulged with musculature. As he stepped forward, I noted he had the trace of a limp and that his left foot turned in slightly.

  “Mr. Percy Trevelyan,” Mrs. Hudson announced, dreamily.

  “At your service,” our guest added, then asked me, “You are Mr. Warlock Holmes?”

  I indicated my companion with a wave and sat back to watch.

  “Yes, I am Warlock Holmes,” said he, rising to shake Trevelyan’s hand. “How may I be of service?”

  “It is a matter of some delicacy…” Trevelyan said, then held his silence until Mrs. Hudson realized that he was waiting for her to leave. She favored Mr. Trevelyan with a gaze that promised… well… everything, then fired a hateful sneer at Holmes and me, and departed.

  “Ah… that’s better,” said Holmes. “Now, tell me all.”

  “Well, I am the founder of Trevelyan’s Aerial Ballet…”

  “And a dancer,” Holmes declared. “I perceived it at once.”

  “Trapeze, I think you’ll find,” I said. “Observe his calloused hands, muscular upper body and the club foot which would surely preclude a career as a dancer.”

  “Oh… Damn…” mumbled Holmes.

  I saw from Trevelyan’s glance that I had wounded him somewhat, but he agreed, “It is just as your… colleague… says. I’m sorry, you must be…”

  “Dr. John Watson, at your service.”

  “Oh, well, I am very pleased to meet you,” Trevelyan said, then, in a lower voice added, “Very glad to find you here, indeed.”

  I did not like his inference. I had observed the marks of—shall we say—a gentleman’s gentleman about Mr. Trevelyan. I supposed he assumed himself to be in like company, and thought my relationship with Holmes was a romantic one.

  “Holmes and I are merely fellow lodgers; it helps to share expenses,” I explained.

  “Even for a doctor?” Trevelyan asked, raising a mischievous eyebrow.

  “Well… I… Yes, for this doctor. I am not currently in practice, so…”

  “Ah!” said Trevelyan, raising a finger. “I am here to ask Mr. Holmes’s advice over just such an arrangement.”

  “I think a different arrangement,” I said, but he ignored me and continued.

  “Last spring I was approached by a gentleman after one of my shows, name of Blessington.”

  I cringed, hoping the story was not to be too lurid.

  “He found me at Le Café Majestique, taking dessert with a few of my admirers, still in my costume. He walked straight up to us, declared an interest in trapeze and offered to pay for the entire table if he might be allowed to join. Well, we were delighted and admitted him at once. Yet he proved to be so crude, I found myself amazed that a mind like that could have any interest in the arts at all. As the evening wore on and people began to excuse themselves, it became clear that he was waiting to be the last man at the table with me. When he had me alone, he made a very strange proposition.”

  I shifted uneasily in my chair, which drew a look of annoyance from Trevelyan. Holmes was yet to give any indication that he understood the situation our guest was describing.

  “Blessington told me he wished to become a patron of the arts, but knew nobody in London’s creative circles. That very night, point blank, he offered to support me. He promised me room, board, spending money and financial support for my trapeze show. All I had to do was come live with him and offer a share of my profits.”

  Here Holmes brightened and asked, “I say, do you make a lot of money at trapeze?”

  “No. I don’t. Nobody does.”

  “I imagine that did not concern Mr. Blessington,” said I.

  “It did not. I chided him for his forwardness, but told him I might be interested. He offered to show me the place that very night and I will confess, I agreed. Imagine my surprise when he had me installed in a separate room from his own.”

  “Why should that surprise you?” Holmes asked.

  Trevelyan gave Holmes a sly look. I attempted to explain, “Well, Holmes, Mr. Trevelyan enjoys the company of other men…”

  “As do I,” Holmes agreed.

  “No… I mean, instead of women.”

  “Well, that is understandable,” said Holmes. “Much as I would like to say I am beloved of the ladies, I find I never know quite what to say to them. So, I suppose, I must also state that I find myself more comfortable in the company of men.”

  I sighed and said, “You misunderstand. Mr. Trevelyan is a confirmed bachelor.”

  Holmes threw up his hands. “Well? If anybody asked you or me to confirm our marital status, would we not have to proclaim ourselves bachelors also?”

  “Holmes, when a gentleman agrees to move into another gentleman’s house and allows that man to pay his way through life—”

  Here Holmes interrupted to say, “Just as you and I do…”

  “No, Holmes. This is a different arrangement entirely.”

  “It sounds exactly the same.”

  Finally, Trevelyan nodded to me that he would take over. He leaned close to Holmes and whispered a few words in his ear.

  “Oh,” Holmes said. “Yes, that is different. I have heard of such things, of course. But Mr. Blessington was not offering such an arrangement?”

  “No!” said Trevelyan in exasperation. “Once he had me installed and dependent, he ignored me entirely. Still does. We rarely speak more than a few words to one another. I have the whole top floor to myself; he keeps the lower one. In payment, I give him four-fifths of my box-office takings whenever I mount a show.”

  “Eighty percent?” I coughed.

  But Trevelyan waved me down. “It is a pittance! What is eighty percent of nothing, Doctor? He’s squandered a fortune on me, yet he never complains of the loss. The only way I can upset him is by staying out too late. He is insistent that I spend every night in my rooms. He seems to want me there during all hours of darkness.”

  “Curious,” mumbled Holmes. I agreed.

  “This arrangement held until yesterday evening. Earlier this week, an actress friend of mine brought me a card. It bore the name of Gerard Me’doreux—a confederate of the great father of trapeze, Jules Léotard. She told me that Monsieur Me’doreux wished to meet wit
h me and might consent to instruct me on a few of Léotard’s techniques. Well, I was ecstatic! I agreed to meet him at my house, yesterday evening. Blessington spends his early evenings at his club, so I knew we would not disturb him. Monsieur Me’doreux arrived in the company of another gentleman—quite the specimen. He was nearly fifty I should think, but muscular, very short and with reddish hair. Monsieur Me’doreux introduced him as a colleague, but said that his companion—unlike myself—was unworthy to learn the secrets of the Great Léotard. He made the man wait in the hall while we spoke.

  “If I hoped he would open the floodgates of knowledge, I was much mistaken. Monsieur Me’doreux first insisted that I tell him all I know of trapeze in order that he waste no time instructing me in that which I already understood. We spoke for almost an hour but all I had from him were questions—it was I who shared my knowledge. Just as it seemed he might be ready to favor me with his own wisdom, his companion burst in upon us and announced that it was time to go, as Monsieur Me’doreux had theater commitments later that evening. He bustled the old man out without another word.

  “I was frustrated by the meeting and still hopeful that I might arrange another, when Blessington came home. I heard his footsteps in the hall and then a few moments later, a great cry. In a twinkling, he was up the stairs and crashed through my door, demanding to know if I had been in his rooms.”

  “You hadn’t, of course,” I interjected, “but you must now realize that the old gentleman was merely keeping you busy while his accomplice rifled Blessington’s rooms.”

  “I fear that is so,” said Trevelyan.

  “In which case, the old man probably had no knowledge of trapeze to impart. That is why he endeavored to keep you speaking of what you knew; as soon as he was forced to demonstrate knowledge, his sham would have been revealed.”

  “Likely,” sighed Trevelyan. “Alas, for I heartily crave contact with the master of my art and his secrets.”

  “Just as I crave a heart attack, on the part of Mrs. Hudson,” said I. “Yet here we both sit, disappointed. Tell me, did you recount any of this encounter to Blessington?”

  “No. I merely said I had not been in his rooms, at which he grew pale and agitated. I think he was up very late. When I awoke this morning, I crept out, hoping to shield myself from further interrogation. I returned just before lunch, to find him erecting a barricade across the top of the stairs. I had no idea what to do! I could not account for his strange behavior and he refused to answer my questions. One of my friends suggested you, Mr. Holmes, as a man who understands the bizarre better than he understands the commonplace.”

  I had to laugh at that, but Trevelyan ignored me and asked, “What do you think, Mr. Holmes? Can you make any sense of the matter?”

  “Hmm… let me see…” Holmes said and tapped his lips thoughtfully with his finger for a few seconds before deciding, “No. I can’t. How about you, Watson?”

  I had a few notions, but most of the story was a mystery still, so I asked, “Did Blessington tell you nothing? He gave no further clue?”

  “Well… I did hear him talking to himself last night. He was pacing back and forth in his bedroom below me and I several times heard him swear, ‘He shall not have it, by God, Moran shall not have it.’”

  In a trice, Holmes was on his feet.

  “Watson, get your coat!”

  * * *

  Upon our arrival at Trevelyan’s residence, Holmes stepped cautiously from the cab, observing the street in both directions before approaching the door. Trevelyan and I followed, uncertain. We were just behind Holmes and a little off to his left when he reached the door and knocked. No sooner had his hand touched wood than a series of loud reports rang out from behind the door. Shattered wood erupted towards us as a series of holes traced itself across both the door and adjacent wall. Dust and flying splinters filled the air. I can hardly describe the familiarity and horror a battle-wounded soldier feels when he realizes he is once again coming under enemy fire. I must have cried out. Holmes calmly stepped to one side, a look of irritation on his face. Trevelyan froze—the wrong instinct, but one I could well understand, for I had done so myself at the Battle of Maiwand. Turning from the door, I flung myself upon Trevelyan and pulled him down into the gutter.

  “Holmes! Get down!” I cried, but he disregarded me and stood his ground, just to one side of the door.

  “Calm yourself, Watson,” he said. “He’s nowhere near me. The shots are all off to my left.”

  So they were, but not by more than two feet. One round struck the top hinge from the door, then the cascade of bullets began to travel in Holmes’s direction. Warlock huffed his annoyance and took a few steps to his right as the stream of bullets came closer, tracing a line of destruction. A round or two must have struck the latch, for there was a shower of brass and iron lock parts.

  At last the firing ceased. The door sagged on its one damaged hinge, then slowly fell outwards into the street. From within, I heard a voice call, “Don’t come any closer! I have a gun!”

  “So it would appear,” Holmes shouted back. “I don’t suppose you would stop firing it long enough to speak with my friends and me?”

  “Who is that? Moran?”

  “My name is Warlock Holmes; I am here with Mr. Trevelyan.”

  “What does he want?”

  “To return to his quarters without being blown to scraps,” said Holmes.

  Raising my head, I could just see past the ruined door, into the hallway and up the stairs to a curious fort. It was constructed as if by a child on a rainy afternoon. Several cushions had been propped up with empty suitcases, becoming makeshift walls. Half of them were draped with blankets, to form a cozy little hiding place. If the armor afforded by this emplacement was sparse, it was more than recompensed for by its armament. A six-barrel Gatling gun protruded from between two cushions, venting smoke.

  An instant later, a fat, flushed face—which I assumed belonged to Blessington—appeared over a cushion. “No! You can’t come in! It’s my fort!”

  “Blessington,” Holmes remonstrated, “I am coming up there.”

  “No.”

  “I may be your last chance to set this right, Blessington.”

  “I don’t care! Go away!”

  “I am going to count to three and then I am coming in.”

  “I won’t let you!”

  “One…” Holmes said slowly. As he spoke, he gestured for me to get to safety.

  I propped myself up out of the mud somewhat and said, “Holmes, you mustn’t.” With one hand I indicated first Trevelyan and then the rest of the world—meaning that the former should not see Holmes perform any unnatural feats and the latter should not be overrun with demons. I think he understood—vague as my warning was—but he tutted away my protests and again gestured for me to get clear.

  “Two…”

  “Damn him,” I cursed, then grabbed Trevelyan by the sleeve and dragged him to safety further down the street.

  “Three,” said Holmes and stepped in through the door. Blessington opened fire; I heard three more shots ring out, then a strangled scream and a series of thuds, as if someone were kicking the walls inside the house. A lone sofa cushion bounced down the stairs, out the ruined door and into the street.

  “Come on,” I told Trevelyan. “Let’s go see what he’s done in there.”

  There were two possible outcomes and I wasn’t sure I liked either of them. Either Blessington had triumphed and I was about to behold Holmes’s earthly remains, or Holmes had triumphed and I was about to behold… well, it might be anything. I hoped it wouldn’t be too bad—that I wouldn’t find the upstairs crawling with chittering imps or every wall dripping with shreds of Blessington.

  When I peeped around the remains of the doorway, I beheld Holmes, standing on the landing at the top of the stairs, looking down at Blessington’s bulk. All seemed well enough, until I crested the stairs and got a proper look at Blessington. He lay athwart the wreckage of his pillow fort
, flat on his back with his limbs contorted. His eyes were open wide and rolled back and forth in a paroxysm of fear. From his mouth issued tendrils of black, oily smoke. These spilled down upon the floor and splayed outwards, moving with an undulating regularity. So cohesive were the strands that it looked as if an octopus made of smoke had just set up home in Blessington’s mouth and was now feeling about the floor with all its tentacles, searching for the wallet it had dropped on its way in. Just as disturbing was the impression that Blessington was pinned to the floor by a great weight situated at the back of his mouth. His limbs would convulse and strain from time to time, yanking his torso this way and that. Yet, try as he might, he could not make the back of his head budge from its spot.

  “By God!” cried Trevelyan, from the stairs behind me. “What has happened to him?”

  Holmes whirled around and, in wide-eyed guilty stammers, explained, “Oh! Um… He was… He fell down, you see…”

  I raised a finger, stepped in front of Holmes and told Trevelyan, “Holmes has employed the ancient art of karatei, a sacred fighting style from far Japan.”

  “Yes, but that’s… that’s just kicking and punching, isn’t it?” Trevelyan asked.

  “It is,” I said.

  “Then where did all that smoke come from?”

  “You have seen Blessington take a cigarette from time to time, have you not?” I asked. “Holmes struck him in such a way as to release all the residual smoke that was trapped within him, after all those years of tobacco. It should be quite cleansing for him.”

  “Remarkable!” said Trevelyan.

  “Thank you,” Holmes said, with a sigh of relief.

  “And here we have a chance to practice some deduction,” I continued. “Now, Mr. Trevelyan, did you not tell us you keep the upstairs rooms, while Blessington here has the lower floor?”

  “I did,” Trevelyan said.

  “Then why do you think he has constructed the barricade across Mr. Trevelyan’s door, Holmes, and not his own?”

  Holmes shrugged, “It might have just been a better place to build a fort.”

  “It might,” I conceded, “but perhaps there is a more logical deduction. Perhaps he has stashed something precious in Trevelyan’s quarters. Mr. Trevelyan, would you come with me please? I should like to search your rooms. If you find anything that does not belong to you—or anything that does, but which is out of place—you must point it out to me immediately.”