Shadows over Baker Street

by John Pelan;Michael Reaves

  I looked about in confusion. Shoot what? What I saw was as bizarre and unbelievable as a Jules Verne fantasy, but there was no immediate threat—

  “Now, man—before she finishes the spell and it’s too late! You must!”

  I stared at him, realizing with horror that he wanted me to shoot Miriam. At that point I knew one of us had gone mad, and I honestly wasn’t sure if it was Holmes or myself.

  I was paralyzed with bewilderment, and Holmes must have realized that, for he raised his walking stick and lunged toward Miriam.

  But she realized he was there before he could cover half the intervening distance. She broke off her chant and fixed him with that same horrifying glare that she had used on Coombs. She uttered the two-word command I had heard before—and Holmes stopped as if he had run into a stone wall.

  He fell to his knees.

  Dear God, I thought. But it was obvious that no benign deity was being invoked here. I looked from Holmes’s trembling form to Miriam, and saw there a cruelty in her features—the feral enjoyment of a cat tormenting a mouse. Miriam, who had nursed me for months, who had brought me back from the pit. Miriam, a woman of foreign soil whom I would have, against all convention, made my wife. She seemed unaware of me; all her attention was on Holmes.

  “Holmes! I’m coming!” I shouted.

  I took a step forward—and a strange lethargy swept over me. I was still aware of what was taking place, but in an increasingly dreamy, somnambulistic way. I felt somehow removed from it all, to the point of numbed intoxication. The hand holding my revolver dropped, to hang at my side. I was reminded of Mesmer’s experiments in concentration and suggestion, but even as they occurred to me they seemed spurious. I began to understand that this tableau before me was really none of my affair; more, that my human mind was completely inadequate even to begin to understand the forces at work here. Better, far better, not to interfere . . .

  The luminous, thickening quality of the air was increasing; it seemed to be somehow coalescing near one side of the chamber. As if something was taking shape where there had been nothing.

  Holmes, with what was obviously a great and wrenching effort, turned to look back at me. His face was going gray. A part of me, dim and far away, realized that I was watching my friend die.

  Holmes was dying. And Miriam was killing him.

  I cannot explain my next action—there certainly seems no logical reason for what I did. I can only be grateful that my body responded in an atavistic, primitive way to the danger. Had I stopped to think, I would have hesitated—and all would have been lost.

  My left hand dug into my pocket, grasped the talisman Miriam had given me, and pulled it out. It, too, seemed to be glowing slightly, but perhaps that was only my imagination. I cast it on the stony chamber floor and ground it to powder under my heel.

  As it had done before in Coombs’s parlor, reality seemed to snap back. The lassitude enveloping me vanished. I took a deep breath, and raised my revolver.

  “Miriam, stop!” I shouted.

  I clearly saw a moment of surprise, of uncertainty, flash across her countenance. “You can’t shoot me, John,” she said. “You still love me.”

  It was true, I realized. I did still love her. Even though I knew she had laid some kind of mental snare for me, even as she continued to somehow cause Holmes’s slow death from afar—still I felt love for her.

  “Join me, John,” she said. Even without the aid of the charm, her voice was alluring, convincing. “The secrets of the Arab can grant us a life beyond earth, beyond flesh, beyond imagining . . . the cosmos can be ours, John; worlds to create, to command, to destroy . . .”

  The sound of my weapon firing was perhaps the loudest noise I have ever heard.

  Miriam, a look of stunned disbelief on her face, stared at me in shock as she crumpled. Simultaneously Holmes seemed to regain his strength. He and I ran forward. I remember wondering if my medical training could save her, wondering if my loyalty to humanity—to life itself—would let me—

  I held the torch high and we saw the answer to that.

  Whatever it was, it was no longer Miriam Shah—if in fact it ever had been. Obviously it was not life as we define the word, as its death was unlike the death of any material being. Or so I am given to understand. Mercifully, I do not remember it—my brain has elided that memory, a fact for which Holmes says I should be profoundly grateful. It is he who has supplied the gist of our final few moments in the underground chamber. My last recollection is of pulling the trigger. The sound of the gunshot still reverberates within me.

  My next complete memory is of our train ride back to London the next day. Of the time it took us to return to the surface, I remember only brief, intermittent flashes.

  “You knew,” I said to Holmes. “You knew what she was. You called on me to stop when I prevented Bradley from shooting her.”

  He nodded gravely. “I had thought to spare you, old friend. I was hoping to deal with her myself, but I confess I underestimated her power. If Coombs’s man could have ended it then and there, I was willing to go that route.”

  I felt utterly drained—grief was there, but it was a distant wave on a distant shore. “How did you know, Holmes?”

  For the first time in my association with him, Holmes seemed reluctant to expound upon his deductive abilities. “The most obvious clue was the talisman she wore,” he said at last. “No good Mohammedan woman would bear such a thing, for their faith does not permit such charms, and the representation of the human form in their artwork—even so much as a hand—is expressly forbidden by the Prophet. But I had thought it no more than part of her disguise. I would surmise there were magnetic elements in it that somehow gave her mesmeric power over you.

  “But what was more informative was her demeanor. Although you have never spoken directly of her, I long ago surmised that you had met someone during your service in the East. The confirmation of that came nearly four years ago, when I happened into a discussion of the Maiwand campaign with a former infantryman who had been a physician’s assistant in your ward. Please believe me when I tell you I did not solicit details about your stay there—he volunteered the information that you and an Afghan woman had developed a certain . . . affection for each other.”

  It was my turn to nod. Affection. At least Holmes allowed me to cling to whatever shreds of self-respect I might still have.

  “I could tell that something in her had changed since you knew her. Her attitude was distant, even though she smiled and spoke politely; I ascertained an ulterior motive. She showed no real surprise when I announced our destination, merely questioning the reasoning that led me to the conclusion. It was obvious she already knew the identity of Professor Coombs.”

  “Then why involve us at all? Why not proceed directly to his house?”

  “She needed two things from us. The first was the meteorite stone you carried. The vibratory rate of the elements that compose it was a necessary part of the ritual. The second was a means to combat any opposition the late professor might have mounted against her. He had anticipated some kind of attempt to claim the manuscript, even though he wasn’t sure what form it would take.”

  “This still seems like madness to me,” I said wearily. “Magic books . . . a woman possessed by an ancient spirit . . .”

  “Not magic, Watson. My researches have made clear to me that the powers of the Old Ones were based on science, albeit science far in advance of ours. There are theories that concern the possibilities of different realities stacked side by side with our own, like a deck of cards. And these realities, by invocation of certain forces, might be merged. I believe that is what the thing that had assumed Miriam Shah’s identity was attempting—to sunder the boundary between our world and another.” He paused, then added, “I believe her personality had been completely subsumed by the other consciousness. Perhaps you can console yourself by knowing that the animus of the woman you knew was already gone.”

  I nodded. I understood—I eve
n believed it, absurd as it all sounded. Still, I felt none the better for knowing that I had killed, not Miriam, but instead a being which had usurped her identity for its own foul purposes. Holmes tells me that the strange vortex that had started to form in the chamber while the thing—I cannot call it “Miriam”—was performing the rite had vanished when the ritual was interrupted. But even the knowledge that we had saved our world from infestation by an enemy from outside was cold comfort. The bullet had ripped through my own heart as surely as it had hers.

  Perhaps Holmes was right in his theory that Miriam’s essence had been extinguished before she came to London. But I will still take with me to my own grave the expression of hurt and betrayal on her face as the bullet fired by my hand drained the life from her on that damp cavern floor.

  As I fought for composure a flash of recollection came to me: an image of Holmes standing before the altar, torch held high, staring down at that abominable stack of pages. “And what of the Arab’s manuscript, Holmes? What did you do with it?”

  He did not speak for a moment. Then he said, “Ancient parchment burns quite well.”

  Something odd in the tone of his voice made me glance at him. He was looking out the window. There was nothing to see but the English countryside, a sight that, I knew, usually interested him not in the slightest.

  “You destroyed it, then,” I said.

  Again the hesitancy. For a moment fear nearly stilled my heart. Then he looked back at me and smiled. “Yes, Watson,” he said, and this time it was the voice of the Sherlock Holmes I knew and trusted. “I put the torch to it. Within seconds there was nothing left of the Kitab al-Azif but ashes. And the world is the better for it.”

  I felt immense relief. After all, Holmes prized knowledge above all else, no matter what its source. How long could even his formidable will have resisted such a temptation? He had done the sensible thing, the sane thing, by destroying it.

  Holmes looked out the window again. I peered over his shoulder. We were once again passing the bee hives.

  “Remarkable creatures, bees,” Holmes murmured. “Each one a part of a greater whole. Every action, every movement and communication orchestrated, ritualized—almost preordained. Fascinating . . .”

  The Drowned Geologist

  CAITLÍN R. KIERNAN

  10 MAY 1898

  My Dear Dr. Watson,

  At the urgent behest of a mutual acquaintance, Dr. Ogilvey, lately of the British Museum, I am writing you regarding a most singular occurrence which I experienced recently during an extended tour of the Scottish lowlands and the east English coast south on through north Yorkshire. The purpose of my tour was the acquisition of local geological specimens and stratigraphic data for the American Museum here in Manhattan, where I have held a post these last four years. As one man of science writing openly to another, I trust you will receive these words in the spirit in which they are intended; indeed, the only spirit in which I presently know how to couch them: as the truthful and objective testimony of a trained observer and investigator who has borne witness to a most peculiar series of events, which, even now, many months hence, I am yet at a loss to explain. I fear that I must expect you to question the veracity of my story, and no doubt my sanity as well, if you are even half the man of medicine and of science that your reputation has led me to believe. As to why Ogilvey has suggested that I should entrust these facts to you, sir, in particular, that will shortly become quite clear. Moreover, if my voice seems uncertain and strained at times, if my narration seems to falter, please understand that even though the better part of a year has passed since those strange days by the sea, only by the greatest force of will am I able to finally set this account down upon paper.

  My travels in your country, which I have already mentioned, began last June with my arrival in Aberdeen after a rather uneventful and regrettably unproductive month spent studying in Germany. Moving overland by coach and locomotive, alone and availing myself always of the most convenient and inexpensive modes of transportation for my often unorthodox purposes, I wandered throughout the full length of June and July, on a course winding crookedly ever southward, across rugged bands of Paleozoic and Mesozoic strata, usually exposed best, as my luck would have it, along the most inaccessible coastal cliffs and beachheads. So it was that by mid-August, on the morning of the twelfth to be precise, I had worked my way down to Whitby and taken up residence in a small hotel overlooking the harbor.

  After the long weeks I’d spent on the road and often on foot, making my way across the rugged countryside, even these modest accommodations seemed positively luxuriant, I can assure you. To have a hot bath at the ready and cooked meals, a roof to keep the rain off one’s head, such little things become an extravagance after only a little time without them. I settled into my single room on Drawbridge Road, excited at the prospect of exploring the ancient, saurian-bearing shales along the shoreline, but also relieved to be out of the dratted weather for a time. A fortnight earlier, I had cabled Sir Elijah Purdy, a fellow of the Geological Society of London and a man with great experience regarding the Liassic strata at Whitby and the fossil bones and mollusca found therein, and he was to meet me no later than the afternoon of the fourteenth, at which time we would begin our planned weeklong survey of the rocks. Meanwhile, I was to examine specimens in the small Whitby Museum on the Quayside, perusing what type specimens of ammonites and reptilia resided in that institution’s collection.

  I will endeavor not to bore you with a travelogue, for I know from Ogilvey that you are familiar with the village of Whitby, with its quaint red roofs and whitewashed walls, the crumbling abbey ruins at East Cliff, & etc. And I had, by the time, I must confess, taken in more than my share of maritime scenery, and had little interest or patience remaining for anything save the fossil shells and bones, and fossiliferous strata, which I had come so many thousands of miles to see.

  After a good night’s sleep, despite a terrible storm toward dawn, I dressed and went down to breakfast, where there was some considerable excitement and discussion among other guests and the proprietor regarding a Russian schooner, Demeter, which had run aground only a few days prior at Tate Hill Pier. As I have said, I was quite beyond caring about ships and scenery at this point, and paid little attention to the conversation, though I do recall that the circumstances of the ship’s grounding were somewhat mysterious and seemed the source of no small degree of anxiety. Regardless, my mind was almost entirely on my work. I finished my eggs and sausages, a pot of strong black coffee, and set off for the museum. The morning air was not especially warm nor cool, and it was an easy walk, during which I hardly noticed my surroundings, lost instead in my thoughts of all things paleontological.

  I reached the quayside shortly before eleven o’clock and was met, as planned, by the Reverend Henry Swales, who has acted now for many years in a curatorial capacity, caring for the museum’s growing cabinet. Though established originally as a repository for fossils, in the last several decades the museum’s mission has been significantly expanded to encompass the general natural history of the region, including large assemblages of beetles, botanical materials, lepidoptera, and preserved fishes. Reverend Swales, a tall, good-natured fellow with a thick gray mustache and the eyebrows to match, eagerly directed his Yankee guest to the unpretentious gallery where many wall-mounted saurians and other fossils are kept on display for the public. I listened attentively as he related the stories of each specimen, as a man might relate another man’s biography, the circumstances of their individual discoveries and conservation. I was taken almost at once with a certain large plesiosaur which had preserved within its rib cage the complete skeleton of a smaller plesiosaur, and much of the afternoon was passed studying this remarkable artifact, making my sketches, and losing myself ever deeper in my fancies of a lost, antediluvian world of monstrous sea dragons.

  Eventually, the Reverend Swales returned and reminded me that the museum would be closing for the day at four, but I was welcome to stay la
ter if I wished. I did, as I’d only just begun to scratch the surface of this marvelous collection, but didn’t wish to abuse the reverend’s hospitality. After all, I had many more days to pore over these relics, and my eyes were beginning to smart from so many hours scrutinizing the plesiosaurs and ichthyosauria.

  “Thank you,” said I. “But that really won’t be necessary. I’ll return early tomorrow morning.” He reminded me that the museum did not open until eight, which I assured him was entirely agreeable. I tidied my notes and left Reverend Swales to lock up for the night.

  Leaving the quayside behind, I decided to take a leisurely stroll toward the seaside, as it was still early, the weather was fine, and I’d little else to occupy my time except my books and notes. My route took me north along Pier Road, with the dark brown waters of the narrow River Esk flowing swiftly along on my right-hand side. High above the river, of course, rose East Cliff and the venerable ruins of the old abbey.

  Though earlier it had interested me not even in the least, I found myself gazing, fascinated, at the distant, disintegrating walls, the lancet archways, perhaps somewhat more disposed to appreciate “local color” now that some small fraction of my desire to examine Whitby’s famous saurians had been sated by the day’s work. I knew little of the site’s history, only that the original abbey had been erected on the cliffside in A.D. 657, destroyed two centuries later by Viking raiders, and that the ruins of the present structure were the remains of a Norman abbey built on the same spot at some later date. I thought perhaps there had been some saint or another associated with the abbey, that I had read that somewhere, but could not recollect the details. However, as I proceeded along the Pier Road, those towering ruins began to elicit from me strange feelings of dread, which I was, then and now, sir, completely at a loss to explain, and I decided it was best to occupy myself with other, less foreboding sights. So it was that in short order, I came to West Cliff, there above the beach, where the old cobbles of Pier Road turn sharply back to the south again toward the village, forming something like the crooked head of a shepherd’s staff.