Shadows over Baker Street

by John Pelan;Michael Reaves

  “Best get there before dark,” she replied.

  “Thank you, we shall do our best,” I replied.

  She nodded, then turned back to her chair, bidding us good evening.

  I found her brief biblical quotation to be quite nonsensical, wondering how a roomful of lamps would suffice to keep away the devil, should he actually decide to come to Inswich, and said as much to Holmes as we made our way up the stairs.

  “No doubt we’ve just witnessed the result of sleeplessness mixed with religious fervor,” he said sardonically.

  I thought no more of it for the moment. After all, we were merely here to track down Holmes’s sleeping medicine, and in the morning we would be on our way back to London. We deposited our belongings in our quarters, both of which, like the lobby, were lit with sputtering lamps, as were several other open rooms we passed.

  We found no doctor to speak with, Inswich being no doubt too small to attract a resident physician, but we did locate the local dentist, who offered certain information regarding Holmes’s much-sought-after apothecary’s tincture.

  The dentist, it seems, had been approached by an ever-increasing number of townspeople over the last three months in a high state of anxiety over their inability to get any meaningful rest, “On account of a night creature.” Some sort of wild animal that he said was terrorizing the local populace.

  Not putting much stock in the stories he heard—“A load of superstitious rubbish,” he said—yet with no other clear course of action available, he had ordered a large quantity of sleep medicine from his brother-in-law, an apothecary in London, and prescribed it to nearly every man, woman, and child in the town.

  “Once I determined that neither rotting teeth nor indigestion was the cause of their sleeplessness,” he told us, “I decided that putting them all to sleep was the only way to keep them from overrunning my premises.”

  But though the tincture had provided some relief for the first night or two, the symptoms had quickly returned. This of course led to even greater anxiety, and the demand for larger doses, which quickly resulted in the depletion of his brother-in-law’s entire supply.

  “Treating the symptom, not the cause,” said Holmes in my ear.

  When Holmes inquired of the man whether he had any of the medicine left, even a single dram, that he might purchase, he was told the last of it had gone to Carthon House some weeks ago.

  “Perhaps we should investigate this night creature,” I said half in jest as we left the dentist, noting that we had several hours before we were expected for dinner.

  Despite his disappointment regarding the tincture, Holmes required no more prodding than this, though his fatigue was now punctuated regularly by enormous yawns and a frequent rubbing of his tired eyes, for his natural curiosity was now aroused. So he and I took a stroll through the little town, making stops at the smoke shop, the general store, a small pub, and the town hall—in which was located the magistrate’s office, but no magistrate. The tired woman on duty informed us that “his lordship” was away on holiday.

  We interviewed a dozen or so citizens about their experiences of sleeplessness, and as we talked with them, it became clear that it wasn’t only the old innkeeper who feared the night. A rather homely woman of fifty reported that something had been trying to enter her bedroom window, scraping at the glass, rattling the latch, awakening her consistently whenever she neared slumber. Upon rising from her bed and opening the shutters, however, she would invariably find nothing there, only a “bad odor” floating about.

  A young mail clerk reported seeing “a giant shadow, like a bat, only enormous,” swoop down on him as he made his way home late one evening. He avoided the fell creature, he said, by rushing into a well-lit pub.

  Another swarthy fellow, a butcher, looking haggard and worn down, said that he was awakened several times each night for the last month by the feeling that someone or something was sitting on his chest, intent on strangling him. Upon awakening and turning up his lantern, he could find nothing about. I dismissed his story as mania brought on by a continual lack of sleep, such deprivation no doubt resulting in hallucinations.

  “I recently read an article by a Dr. Breuer,” I remarked to Holmes as we moved on in our search, “in a journal of the medical college in Vienna, regarding a type of hysterical condition of the mind which can, under some circumstances, manifest itself throughout an entire community.”

  “I have read the very same article, Watson,” said Holmes. “But that is the symptom, and we search for a cause. Once we have that, a cure should be forthcoming.”

  None of those we interviewed had stated that they had actually seen the creature—that is, until we happened upon one young mother, dark circles around her eyes, who attested that her child had seen the thing enter his bedroom, and had ever since insisted that he sleep in his mother’s bed. I must say that I was forced to suppress a smile at this last accounting, though Holmes appeared to find it not the least bit amusing.

  He asked to speak with the boy.

  “Can you tell me what you saw, sir?” said Holmes, conversing with him as if he were quite the grown man, and not the eight-year-old child he was.

  The young boy looked at his mother, uncertain whether to speak, until she nodded her approval. “I went to bed like I always do,” he said, “and Mummy left a candle burnin’.”

  “To keep the night creatures away,” said the young woman, rather embarrassed, and by way of explaining herself, “Me mother is a superstitious woman, and she’s lately insisted I not leave the boy to sleep in the dark on account of this animal that’s been prowlin’ about.”

  “But I wanted to see it,” the boy said. “To see if it were real, so I put out the light. I waited up a long time, and I think I fell asleep maybe, but then I heard the door open, and saw it. It sniffed ’round a sec, but our dog Jeffery took to barkin’ like mad, and scared it right off.”

  “And could you describe this creature for me?” asked Holmes.

  “Oh, he can do better than that,” said his mother. “Show him, son.”

  The little boy reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper, which he carefully unfolded and handed to Holmes. Holmes studied it closely before handing it to me to examine as well. It was an impressive drawing, very realistically done, with a charcoal stick I assumed, of a quite hideous, winged creature with a snarling dog’s face—certainly a most disturbing picture to have come from the mind of a child.

  “He draws it all day long,” said his mother.

  I felt rather skeptical that anyone so young could render such a monstrosity in considerable detail, especially based on his own alleged experience, and chose to believe instead that one of the superstitious townsfolk must have been telling this child fairy tales.

  “Your son is quite the artist,” I said, politely patting the boy on the head.

  “Yes, he is,” said Holmes, turning to the boy. “May we keep this, young man?”

  The boy looked again to his mother, who nodded to Holmes. “By all means, sir.”

  “Well, it is all most curious,” I said as we left the boy and his mother. “But we will have to continue our investigations tomorrow, I’m afraid, as it’s half-past six now and we must be at Carthon by eight.”

  “Punctual as always, eh, Watson?” remarked Holmes.

  “Etiquette demands the attempt.”

  After returning to the Black Hart and changing into more suitable dinner attire, we returned to the town square to search for a means of transport. There we found that the central area now contained an enormous bonfire, nearly twenty feet high, which lit the night for a great distance all around. A dozen or so men huddled in small groups tended the monstrous blaze. Once again Dr. Breuer’s article on mass hysteria came to my mind, and I would have remarked on it to Holmes, but the conflagration seemed hardly unusual after all that we had seen and heard this day.

  I asked the men where we might find transport, and one pointed out a small open transom parked
nearby. Its driver was a middle-aged chap with a gap in his teeth and a single thick brow like a long black caterpillar extending across both his eyes. He seemed extremely reluctant to ferry us to Carthon at first, asking why we should want to take such a long ride, then offering excuses as to his horses being tired and it being awfully near to his own dinnertime. A guinea from my waistcoat quickly transformed his hesitation into compliance.

  He opened the side door on his small vehicle and assisted us in boarding. “Who am I to tell such fine gentlemen where to go and when? Right this way, sirs.”

  As we made the journey, our talkative driver continued nervously chatting—about the weather, the price of sheep and cattle, his mother-in-law in Barrington—but made no mention of insomnia. He likely would have gone right on expounding to us ad infinitum had not Holmes asked him, “Have you been sleeping well of late?”

  “No one sleeps well in Inswich, sir,” the man solemnly replied.

  “And what do you suppose might be the cause?” I asked casually, presuming a reluctance to reply on his part.

  “I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” he answered. “I’m just a carriage man, y’know. ’Course, I do hear the odd bit, tales of beasts that prowl the night and the like.”

  “We’ve heard the same stories,” I said.

  “Old wives’ tales, don’t y’agree?” said the driver.

  “Yes, of course, most assuredly,” I replied.

  “Do you recall when these stories began?” Holmes asked.

  “It was back in January, I believe, not long after the moon went clipped.”

  “Went clipped?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. There’s the moon, then it’s clipped.”

  “The lunar eclipse,” said Holmes, rather excited. “December twenty-seventh, was it not, Watson?”

  “Yes. I believe so,” I said, trying to recall the precise date.

  “That’s right,” said the driver. “It was all black for a long minute or two, and the old women went to church afterward, and fell down on their knees to pray for our souls. Wuhn’t long after I heard the missus tell me to leave a light on afore bed so’s to keep the devil hisself away.”

  The discussion went no further, though I had no doubt Holmes’s mind was hard at work. Save for the clacking of the horses’ hooves and the turning of the transom wheels, we traveled on in silence. We arrived at Carthon House just before eight. A long stone driveway, with tall regal oaks lining both sides like sentries, led up to the magnificent estate, an enormous mansion ablaze with lights in nearly every window, of which the front prospect alone featured over a hundred—a welcoming beacon in the stark, moonless night.

  “Extraordinary,” I remarked.

  “Will you be wanting me to stay, sirs?” asked our driver as we disembarked.

  “No, thank you,” said Holmes.

  The man nodded, turned his transom around, and disappeared quickly back into the night.

  “He seemed rather in a hurry to leave, did he not?” I remarked to Holmes.

  “Did you notice the lump beneath the breast pocket of his long coat?” replied Holmes. “Unless I am mistaken, it was a revolver—quite at the ready by the way his right hand checked for its presence every minute or two.”

  “Perhaps there really are beasts about?” I said, again in jest.

  “That is one possibility,” said Holmes.

  I simply shook my head in disbelief at him for not dismissing these tales of nocturnal fright out of hand.

  As we climbed the stairs to the mansion’s entrance, the great door opened and Dr. Mashbourne appeared, accompanied by a footman.

  “Splendid, splendid,” said Mashbourne as the footman took our coats and hats. “You’re right on time as always, Dr. Watson.”

  Holmes grinned at me with that tight-lipped sour grin of his as we entered Carthon house.

  The interior was every bit as magnificent as the exterior. A great chandelier hung over the ornate foyer, spilling light from dozens of candles.

  “Must be the devil to keep that in good order,” I said, motioning as we walked through.

  “That’s not even the largest of them,” said Mashbourne, “as you’ll see when we reach the dining hall.”

  He led us into the drawing room and called for one of the servants to bring us some sherry. As we drank, I discussed with Mashbourne our various encounters in Inswich and the stories of the creature that haunted the townsfolk’s nights.

  “A creature, you say? What sort of creature?”

  Holmes took out the scrap of paper with the young boy’s drawing on it, and showed it to Mashbourne. He studied it closely, and I felt as I watched him that he was taking the whole thing rather too seriously.

  “How long can a person continue without sleep?” asked Holmes.

  “I’ve had single cases of some days,” I interjected, “even a week—you well know—though I daresay I’ve never encountered such a prolonged and widespread case as this, not even in the journals.”

  “Nor I,” concurred Mashbourne, handing the drawing back to Holmes. “Have you formulated a hypothesis yet, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Yes,” replied Holmes, to my plain surprise.

  “And what would that be?” said a gentle, soft voice behind us.

  We turned, and there beheld a stunning woman of thirty years or so, with golden hair, shimmering blue eyes, and skin of translucent alabaster. She wore a pale dress the color of eggshells, with a high closed collar, and a delicate silver chain with a small black stone hanging ’round her neck. Like the myriad lights that filled her home, she gave off a veritable glow of warmth.

  Even Holmes was silent, leaving it to Mashbourne to break the spell and make introductions.

  “Lady Carthon, these are my good friends Dr. John Watson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes. They are quite famous in London—”

  “For solving many a notorious crime,” she said, completing his sentence. “I’m familiar with the reputation of the good Mr. Holmes. And what brings you two gentlemen to our humble Inswich?”

  “A rumor that the place was overrun with beautiful women,” I said.

  She laughed so easily as to make me blush. “You’re quite charming, Dr. Watson, really,” she replied.

  “You flatter me, madam,” I replied, bowing my head, pleased that I had elicited such a pleasant response from so fair a lady.

  The butler arrived, summoning us to dinner. We followed Lady Carthon like anxious suitors as she glided elegantly into the dining hall.

  Once seated, we were indulged with the most excellent of meals, consisting of several courses, one following immediately upon the other. Mashbourne was in heaven. He said very little, merely nodding his understanding at what conversation there was, or grunting his approval of the variety of foods brought before us. As Holmes seemed lost in thought again, it was left to me to converse with Lady Carthon.

  “Do you live here alone?” I asked, somewhat too forthrightly, I feared.

  “Yes, alone,” she answered, betraying no embarrassment at my directness.

  “And your husband?” I asked, noting the wedding band on her left hand. “Is he away traveling?”

  “My husband was killed in Egypt, a year ago January,” she replied. “He was a captain in Her Majesty’s Royal Army. A most wonderful man.”

  “My deepest sympathies, madam,” I said, chastened by her reply. “It must be difficult managing this large estate without him.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, “but I manage well enough.”

  “Most assuredly,” I replied. “You must entertain often.”

  “Oh, not often. I do have my dear friend Dr. Mashbourne call upon me occasionally, to deliver little tidbits of news from London, as well as personable guests such as yourself.”

  Mashbourne nodded and smiled, his mouth too full to speak.

  “Are you aware that the entire town of Inswich is suffering a sleep affliction?” interjected Holmes.

  “Yes, of course I’m aware of it.”

 
“And tell me, madam,” continued Holmes, “do you sleep well yourself?”

  She paused for a moment, then answered, “No, not well at all.”

  Dr. Mashbourne cleared his throat. “Emily is the patient I mentioned to you on our journey north. Her husband and I served briefly together in Egypt.”

  “Yes,” said Holmes. “You were not long in the service, if I remember correctly.”

  “Eighteen months,” said Mashbourne.

  “And how long has this sleepless condition persisted?” said Holmes to Lady Carthon.

  “Quite some time,” she replied.

  “Yet you only called upon Dr. Mashbourne quite recently?”

  “It was of little concern before.”

  “And now?” said Holmes.

  “It’s become increasingly troublesome,” Lady Carthon replied.

  “Do you remember the last time that you actually slept through the night?” said Holmes.

  “It was January, I suppose.”

  “Are you telling us, Emily, that you have not slept in three whole months?” said Mashbourne.

  “How are you able to function?” I asked, incredulous. “Are you not perpetually exhausted?”

  “Do you have any idea what it is that is keeping you awake?” Holmes continued, in a relentless manner I did not condone.

  She seemed rather overwhelmed by this barrage of questions, for it seemed she was unsure how to reply.

  “Have you heard the stories the townspeople tell, of a creature that haunts their sleep?” asked Holmes after a moment.

  She hesitated again, then finally answered. “I have.”

  “And what do you make of them?”

  “I find them to be most disturbing.”

  “You believe them?” I asked.

  “That is why she has a light burning in every room, is it not, madam?” said Holmes.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m sure this must all sound quite silly to gentlemen from London, but I assure you it has been most frightening for me.”

  “Please do explain,” said Holmes.

  “It all began one night in late December,” she said, recomposing herself. “There was a total lunar eclipse. Many among the townspeople were unnerved by it, especially when the local priest, a sadly superstitious old man, I’m afraid, packed up his belongings and left us the very next day. I myself did not share their fears, having studied the stars somewhat, and stayed awake well into the night to witness the event. Afterward, I went to the drawing room for a glass of brandy, and as I made my way down the dark hallway, I suddenly felt a presence—very close by. It was a black shadow of a thing, and I felt it brush my neck. It frightened me very badly, of course, and I’m afraid I screamed quite loudly. My maidservant, Estella, came running out of her room with a lantern to see what all the ruckus was about, and as she approached, the thing simply disappeared.