Shadows over Baker Street

by John Pelan;Michael Reaves

  “The cobbler’s son,” I said, and looked back down at the ruined face of Purdy. “He said that he was paid to summon me here. I assumed you’d sent for me, sir, though I’m not at all sure how you could have known to do so.”

  At that, the harbormaster and constable exchanged perplexed stares and the latter went back to puffing at his pipe.

  “This man was an associate of yours, then?” the harbormaster asked me.

  “Indeed,” said I. “He is Sir Elijah Purdy, a geologist from London. He arrived in Whitby only yesterday. I believe he may have taken a room at the Morrow House on Hudson Street.”

  The two men looked at me and then the constable whispered something to his companion and the two nodded their heads in unison.

  “You’re an American,” the constable said, raising an eyebrow and chewing at the stem of his pipe.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m an American.”

  “Well, Dr. Logan, you may be certain that we’ll get straight to the bottom of this,” he assured me.

  “Thank you,” I said, and it was at that moment that I noticed something odd, about the diameter of a silver dollar, clutched in the drowned man’s hand.

  “Murders here in Whitby do not go unsolved.”

  “What makes you think he was murdered?” I asked the constable, prying the curious, iridescent object from Elijah Purdy’s grasp.

  “Well, for one, the man’s pockets were filled with stones to weight the body down. See there for yourself.”

  Indeed, the pockets of his wool overcoat were bulging with shale, but on quick inspection I saw that they all contained fossils and explained to the man that in all likelihood, Elijah Purdy himself had placed the stones there. One of his vest pockets was likewise filled.

  “Ah,” the constable said thoughtfully, and rubbed at his mustache. “Well, no matter. We’ll find the chap what did this, I promise you.”

  In no mood to argue the point, I answered a few more questions, told the constable that I would be available at the inquest, and made my way back up the rickety stairway to Pier Road. I stood there for a short time, surveying the scene below, the men arranged in a ring around the drowned man’s corpse, the dark sea lapping tirelessly at the shore, the wide North Sea sky above. After a bit I remembered the object I’d taken from Purdy’s hand and held it up for a closer inspection. But there was no doubt of what it was, a small ammonite of the genus Dactylioceras, a form quite common in sections of the English Liassic. Nothing extraordinary, except that this specimen, though deceased, was not fossilized, and the squidlike head of the cephalopod stared back at me with silvery eyes, its ten tentacles drooping limply across my fingers.

  I fear that there is little else to tell, Dr. Watson, and glancing back over these few pages, I can see that there is not nearly so much sense in what I’ve written as I’d hoped for. I returned to the hotel, where I would spend the next three days, making one more visit to the Reverend Swales’s museum, only to discover my enthusiasm for work had dissolved. After the inquest, during which it was determined that Sir Elijah Purdy’s drowning was accidental, having occurred while he collected fossils along the beach and that no foul play was involved, I packed up my things and returned home to Manhattan. I delivered the very recently dead Dactylioceras, preserved in alcohol, to the curator of fossil invertebrates, who greeted the find with much fanfare and promised to name the surprising new species for the man from whose grip I had pried it. One final detail, which will be of interest to you, and which forms the primary reason of this writing, is a letter which I received some weeks after coming back to the States.

  Posted from Whitby on the twelfth of September, one month to the day after my arrival there, it carried no return address and had been composed upon a typewriter. I will duplicate the text below:

  Dear Dr. Logan,

  I trust that your trip home will have passed without incident. I have written to offer my sincerest apologies for not having attended to the matter of your friend’s untimely death, and for not having found the time to continue our earlier conversation. But I must implore you to forget the odd matter of which I spoke, the three tablets from Whitby, Staithes, and Frylingdales. All are now lost, I fear, and I have come to see how that outcome is surely for the best. Dark and ancient powers, the whim of inhuman beings of inconceivable antiquity and malignancy, may be at work here and, I suspect, may have played a direct role in the death of Sir Elijah. Take my words to heart and forget these things. To worry at them further will profit you not. Perhaps we will meet again someday, under more congenial circumstances.

  S. H.

  Whether or not the letter’s author was, in fact, your own associate, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if that was the man I spoke with at West Cliff, I cannot say. Any more than I can explain the presence in the waters off Whitby of a mollusk believed vanished from the face of the earth for so many millions of years or the death of Elijah Purdy, an excellent swimmer, I have been told. Having never seen the tablets firsthand, I can profess no reliable opinion regarding them, and feel I am better off not trying to do so. I have never been a nervous man, but I have taken to hearing strange sounds and voices in the night, and my sleep and, I am very much afraid, peace of mind are beginning to suffer. I dream of—no, I will not speak here of the dreams.

  Before I close, I should say that on Friday last there was a burglary at the museum here, which the police have yet to solve. The Whitby ammonite and all written records of it were the only things stolen, though some considerable vandalism was done to a number of the paleontology and geology offices and to the locked cabinet where the specimen was being kept.

  I thank you for your time, Dr. Watson, and, if you are ever in New York, hope to have the pleasure of meeting you.

  Dr. Tobias H. Logan

  Department of Vertebrate Paleontology

  American Museum of Natural History

  New York City, New York

  (Unposted letter discovered among the effects of Dr. Tobias Logan, subsequent to his suicide by hanging, 11 May 1898.)

  A Case of Insomnia

  JOHN P. VOURLIS

  Holmes couldn’t sleep. Not that this was unusual—he required no more than three to four hours on any given night. While London slumbered, he would prowl the gaslit neighborhoods of the city, past the breadmakers at the foot of Baker Street already at work, observing the late-night revelers staggering home from Soho in their drunken stupor as he continued down Regent Street, through Mayfair, past the ladies of the evening in Shepherd’s Market still hoping to squeeze the last few pounds out of the night before lying down in their own beds as the sun rose. Through Piccadilly, Edgware, Marylebone, and finally home again to the flat we shared. This was the route Holmes’s sleeplessness followed—which he often detailed for me over a morning pipe.

  As a man of medicine, I pondered the root of his affliction. Holmes’s mind was an engine of perpetual thought, constantly at work on some problem that required wakefulness. Sleep seemed a nuisance to him, a luxury he had little use for. So it was no real surprise to me that Thursday in March when he came striding into my chambers at half-past seven in the morning, the Daily Press in hand, and said, “Watson, I simply cannot sleep!”

  “What about the Valeriana officinalis I prescribed for you?” I said.

  “Useless. It’s been three days now, and I haven’t so much as closed my eyes. And I am not alone in my suffering,” he continued, shoving the newspaper into my hands. “Read there, page three, column seven, near the bottom.”

  I scanned the paper, searching for the item.

  “There.” He pointed, jabbing his finger like a dagger at the headline.

  “ ‘Plague of Insomnia,’ ” I read aloud. “ ‘Citizens of northern town of Inswich suffer third month of sleeplessness. Town rife with wild rumors of cause. What began as a few isolated cases has become a full-blown epidemic . . .’ Holmes, you’re not suggesting a connection between your restlessness and theirs?”

  “Of course not,” Holmes
replied. “But when I couldn’t sleep this third night, I went to an apothecary on Hadry Street.”

  I knew the man. His shop was in Islington, and he was really nothing more than a glorified opium peddler. I grew more concerned for my friend’s condition. He noted this in my expression, of course, and went on to clarify himself.

  “It became apparent that I required something a bit stronger than your roots and herbs.”

  I looked at Holmes with disapproval, but he brushed straight past it. “He prescribes a tincture of Turkish poppy and cannabis,” he continued. “However, when I requested a dram of this medicine, he explained that he’d been out of supply since before the New Year. I found this very curious indeed, as he has never failed to satisfy my need on any prior occasion, and I asked him how such a thing had transpired. He then related to me that a large shipment had been sent north, and that his usual suppliers had failed to refill his inventory ever since, due to exceedingly high demand and the accompanying inflation of price.”

  “Sent to Inswich, I’ll wager.”

  “Correct, Watson,” Holmes replied, rubbing his eyes. “Now pack your things. We have a train to catch.”

  As I readied myself to depart with him for Inswich, I could sense his rising agitation, akin to those Thoroughbreds at Aston waiting with impatience at the starting line for the race to begin. “Do hurry along,” he said, picking up a few of his own things, including the revolver he sometimes carried.

  “Are you expecting difficulties?” I asked.

  “I expect nothing,” he replied.

  At the Marylebone station, we purchased our tickets for Barrington, the stop nearest Inswich, an otherwise rather isolated hamlet. I picked up the London Mail from a smoke shop to occupy myself on the arduous seven-hour journey.

  As he stood restless beside me, Holmes brought to my attention a fellow passenger some distance down the tracks.

  “Isn’t that Dr. Mashbourne?” he said.

  I looked up from where I had given the man at the shop a halfpence for the paper and saw our old acquaintance, Arthur Mashbourne, doctor of medicine at Charing Cross. We made our way through the morning crowd to greet him.

  I recalled Mashbourne as a thin man of enormous appetites, ruddy of complexion, who now gave the appearance of having been squeezed into his trousers and jacket like ground meat stuffed into casings of sausage. Pleasant enough a gentleman when engaged in dinner or drink, he would, if deprived of either for too long, become so single-minded in their pursuit as to be most gently described as “off-putting.”

  “Gentlemen! What a pleasure to see you,” he said, clasping our hands with vigor. “And where might you be traveling?”

  “To Inswich, with you,” said Holmes.

  “How did you know my destination?” asked the startled Mashbourne. “One of your clever deductions, I suspect. Let’s hear it.”

  “Merely the ticket in your breast pocket,” Holmes replied, and without pausing asked, “What do you make of this rash of insomnia they’re having up there? That is the reason for your journey?”

  “Yes. I go to see a patient, an old friend who has contracted this sleeplessness. A most unusual epidemic, from what little I’ve gathered. It’s the subject of your inquiry as well, then?”

  “Indirectly, yes,” I said. “It seems they have cornered the market on a certain soporific which our friend Holmes means to acquire.”

  “You’re having trouble sleeping as well, Holmes?” asked Mashbourne, concerned.

  “I go to satisfy my curiosity,” he said, frowning at me, “not my craving for sleep.”

  I decided it was better not to dispute this point of fact, and an awkward moment passed before our train pulled in and the conductor called for all to board.

  It was unavoidable that we share a berth with Mashbourne. Closing our compartment, we made ourselves as comfortable as possible for the passage to Inswich. I looked to my paper as Holmes took out his pipe and began filling it. Mashbourne removed his coat and produced a silver flask, offering it around.

  “Brandy?” he said.

  “No, thank you,” I replied.

  “Holmes?”

  Holmes was deep in thought and made no effort to respond.

  “I find that when I have trouble sleeping, brandy can be of use,” the doctor said, taking a swig.

  “Yes, for some,” I said, “though I prefer pestled valerian in a warm chamomile tea.”

  “That could be equally effective,” said Mashbourne, taking another draft, “though not as pleasurable.”

  We changed trains at King’s Cross for the remainder of the trip north. As we reboarded, I asked Mashbourne, “Do you have any theories as to what could cause such a curious epidemic?”

  “I shall require more facts before making a diagnosis,” he replied.

  “Facts we have,” said Holmes perfunctorily. “The town: Inswich. The time of year: spring. The weather: rainy. The duration of the epidemic: three months. That would put its inception sometime around mid-January.”

  “Are you suggesting this is a seasonal disorder?” said Mashbourne, clearly engaged on the problem now. “Perhaps a respiratory condition, such as pleurisy?”

  Holmes let out a “humph” and drew at his pipe, leaving Mashbourne and me to continue the discussion of various pulmonary distresses.

  The train from King’s Cross picked up speed, belching black smoke into the blue morning sky. As the city gave way to the countryside, I buried my head in my newspaper, reading of the previous day’s events. Mashbourne made a pillow of his coat and was soon fast asleep, the brandy having served its purpose.

  Holmes, meanwhile, continued to puff on his pipe and occasionally emitted another “humph.” At each grumble, I looked up from my reading, thinking he was about to expound on some facet of the case. But he never did, and I was left to ponder in silence what possibilities he might be eliminating.

  As morning moved into afternoon, we adjourned to the dining car for supper, where Holmes turned the conversation once more to Inswich. As Mashbourne devoured his roast beef, bread pudding, and apple sausages, Holmes recounted all manner of facts and figures about the town, speaking of the place with such passion that one would scarcely realize he had never set foot there. But it was all digesting in that exceptional mind of his, just as surely as the tremendous quantities of food that now filled Mashbourne’s stomach.

  The population of Inswich was small, recounted Holmes, barely three hundred people. The town had been founded by a Roman general as a way station on the road to and from London. The town square had been built on the site of an ancient druidic temple, third century A.D. Before the railway had come to Barrington, a town some ten miles or so to the east, Inswich had had a population of several thousand, with produce and livestock as the chief exports, shipped south to market via canal. But that day had passed, and the town had fallen into decline, until now the few residents remaining tended the various great estates that dotted the north of England, or farmed their own meager plots of land.

  We arrived in Barrington at half-past four, with the sun hidden by drab gray clouds. Leaving the platform, we secured a small coach for the final leg of our journey to Inswich, which would last another three-quarters of an hour.

  “If you gentlemen are of a mind,” said Mashbourne, “I may secure you lodging at Carthon, my friend’s estate, not far from here, where I shall be a guest.”

  “No thank you, Doctor,” said Holmes before I could accept. “We shall take lodging in Inswich. I should like to find a central location which can afford us the greatest ease of access to the townspeople.”

  “Very well,” said Mashbourne. “But you must dine with me this evening. I should very much like you both to meet the Lady Carthon, a most exquisite hostess.”

  We parted company with the doctor in Inswich, agreeing to call at Carthon at eight bells, then set about securing ourselves lodging at the Black Hart, a small inn located at the center of the town—a prime spot, observed Holmes, from which we
could conduct all necessary business.

  Entering a low-ceilinged anteroom meagerly lit by several sputtering oil lamps, we found no one at hand to attend us. I clapped the bell, and a haggard figure stirred from the shadows. Rising from a rocking chair, an elderly woman of perhaps seventy appeared: hair gray as slate, one eye brown, the other clouded milky white with cataract.

  “Two rooms?” she asked in a tired, creaky voice.

  “Yes, madam, thank you,” I replied.

  “And how many nights?” she asked.

  “I will be quite surprised if we are unable to conclude our business this very evening,” said Holmes.

  “You’ll find no reason to stay here longer, sir,” agreed the woman. “We have little to boast of.”

  “We understand that the entire town has suffered from sleeplessness these last three months,” said Holmes.

  “It’s in all the London papers,” I hastened to add, fearing that my friend’s peremptory manner might distress our hostess.

  “Yes, well, there is that,” she said softly.

  “Are you so afflicted yourself?” inquired Holmes.

  “I am indeed,” she replied, but before she could continue, one of the lamps flickered out, and she hurriedly moved to it, her hands shaking as she struck a match and rekindled the wick.

  “Are you all right, madam?” I asked, concerned that we might have inadvertently frightened the poor woman.

  “You’ll pardon me, sir,” she replied nervously, “but the night has become a thing to dread ’round here.”

  “Indeed?” I said. “And why might that be?”

  “ ‘The devil is driven from light into darkness and is banished from the world,’ ” she replied, as if that somehow answered my question.

  “Job, chapter eighteen, verse eighteen,” said Holmes.

  She nodded, offering nothing further, but handed over two keys. “Seven and eight, up the stairs to the right,” she continued. “And would you be wanting tea this evening?”

  “No, madam, we are expected at Carthon,” I said.