“Rupert Corin never married.”
“More reason to believe the possibility of infidelity.” He brushed that aside. “We can safely assume that both Hugh and Emily are his children. As there was never a sign of any disorder within Hugh that we know of, we can also safely assume that whatever happened to him occurred after the lad was conceived.”
“Then why would he want the boy with him?”
“Perhaps he’s dying. You could easily see he wasn’t well. Perhaps he wants to see his family one more time before he passes, or just as likely he’s hoping one of them might hold the cure to his condition.”
“I should think for any medical procedures he would need a doctor.”
“His brother was the one who came up with methods of keeping both him and Emily alive, Watson. I believe he qualifies.”
I nodded my head and we continued following the strange footprints. Some looked almost human; others looked like nothing I could easily conceive of.
“Whatever foulness the man let himself into, he’s either dying or believes that he is. His actions are those of a desperate man, Watson. Were he not so desperate, he’d have merely discussed matters with his family.” He used a stray twig to pick up some of the sludge and studied it in the moonlight. First he sniffed at the filth and then he studied it as carefully as he could. Much as I might have wished to avoid it, Holmes held the reeking foulness close to my face and I looked at it as well. There were things moving in that waste, small wormlike creatures that wriggled and thrashed.
“Once again we must look past the possibilities that make us comfortable, Watson. We have to consider that there are elements to this case that delve into the unnatural. Rupert Corin’s physical state and the tales of Roderick Corin are not within the norm, but if we consider both as legitimate elements, and we must, I suppose, then we have to consider that whatever unusual tongue the child Emily spoke might have been something more than merely incoherent babble.”
“What do you mean, man?” My patience was wearing thin.
“Witchery, Watson. I mean we are dealing with witchery.”
“Madness, more like.”
Holmes began moving faster, taking longer strides that soon bordered on a run and what choice had I but to join him? We trotted at a steady pace and he continued with his suppositions to me. “I believe that we have to consider the changes in Rupert Corin might not be something he chose or can control. I think that if Emily Corin did indeed summon worms, wither the vegetation and generate a storm of frozen blood that she might have somehow caused the changes in her ‘uncle.’” He pointed toward the land to our right. We ran across fields that had not changed in generations and though some would have easily overlooked it, Holmes was astute enough to spot the gentle rise in the land that indicated an old burial mound.
“There. The footprints continue on to there.”
“I thought surely we’d be chasing the damned thing all the way to the docks.”
Holmes shook his head. “For all we know this is merely a good place to hide away his prize.”
The voice that interrupted came from behind me, and though it was that of a young girl, I felt my skin shiver at the tone. “Or perhaps, gentlemen, this is merely the right place to end all pretense.”
I had never seen the child before, of course, but I could recognize certain similarities to Hugh Corin in Emily’s face. Her eyes were the same, the shape of her nose. The only aspect that differed greatly was the shape of the mouth and in that particular it was because her lips were hidden by the growth of odd fungal matter — like smears of mud and moss.
“Miss Corin?” Holmes moved toward her, his eyes as alert as ever. I studied the child, trying to understand the source of the strange affliction. In the cold of night she wore only a simple dress as would be seen on any child of means. Though she wore neither coat nor cloak she did not appear affected by the cold.
“I know of you. Hugh has spoken of you more than once, Mr. Holmes.” For the first time I shook my head and wondered if the tales I’d written of my friend might not have been a mistake. “I could no sooner fail to recognize you than I could any of the men Hugh admires.”
Without another word she looked toward me and I saw an odd glimmer in her eyes, not so much a reflection of the moonlight but a light that seemed to come from within her feverish gaze. “You are his friend, Dr. Watson.” It was not a question and though I could never prove it, I will remain certain, until I reach the grave, that she took that information from my mind as easily as a skilled pickpocket might separate a man from his wallet.
Without another word the child lunged at me with a speed that defies description. I reached out to stop her, but by the time my hands should have touched her slight shoulders she was already planting her hands on my chest and leaning in to kiss me as she would an uncle or a close family friend.
I felt her cold, wet lips touch mine and was instantly overcome with revulsion. Her flesh was as cold as the night, and her lips tasted of rot and decay as they brushed mine. Far worse, however was the feeling of something passing from her to me.
I staggered backward and retched on the taste of her, on the feel of something cold and thin and slippery touching first my tongue and then wriggling to the back of my throat. My first thought, my only thought was a deep disgust. For all the world I feared that I had somehow ingested a fat, ripe maggot.
That was my last thought before the paralysis struck me down and forced me to my knees.
“Watson! John! What has she done to you man? What has she done?” I heard the fear in his voice then. Holmes, who could be so reserved, who seldom showed anything of overt emotion. I heard his fear and felt a moment of panic before I fell into darkness.
What I write from this moment on is supposition. I have vague recollections, like fading dreams, but they make little sense to me.
I remember someone speaking in an odd language, nothing I had heard before and I assure you I have heard a great number of languages in my time. The voice echoed in unsettling ways and strongly resembled that of my friend.
I do believe that I was at Death’s very door after receiving Emily Corin’s repugnant kiss. Whatever she did to me, whatever she passed on to me, it was the death of me, or would have been if not for the dedication of my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes.
These things I know: I woke up fully five days after he called my name. I woke in my own bed, not in a hospital or an infirmary, but in the room I have lived in since my Mary passed. I awoke in my bedclothes as if I had merely had a substantial nightmare.
The Corin estate lies empty now. More than that, the house itself has been reduced to ruin, burned to the ground and, according to the newspapers, leveled so completely that no sign of the structure remains.
There has been no sign of Hugh Corin, or any member of his family either, since that night.
Other indications exist that much happened while I was unconscious. Two separate museums in London were burgled during my harsh illness. Though the thief who broke into the establishments was clever enough to avoid detection by not only Scotland Yard, but apparently Sherlock Holmes himself, the culprit took only two items. In one case a rare manuscript, published some centuries ago and untitled. It was believed that the unusual leather which bound the text was very likely human flesh preserved by means no longer understood. The only other item taken was a statue that bears strong resemblance to the items that were supposedly destroyed in the fire at the Corin home.
This, too, I know. Sherlock Holmes, my good friend and confidant, seldom has reason to hide anything from me. We have been friends for a long while now and I do not believe he has lied to me more than once or twice in that time, and then with very good reason.
However, I believe that he has lied to me recently when he claimed no knowledge of what happened to Hugh Corin and the family that was stolen from the boy on the night I was struck near death.
I believe that he knows much about not only the destruction of certain ancestral
homes, but about the unusual condition of the estate’s land, which was violently unsettled on the night of the fire, fully two days after my sudden illness.
I believe he would also be able to confirm the identities of several people who purchased passage on a freighter recently and took that very vessel out to sea, headed for the Americas. Allegedly the people were suffering from unusual skin conditions that were so extreme a brief rumor of rampant leprosy started and was quickly quelled.
I believe as well that he knows exactly how the crimes at the museums were committed. I believe that he knows the layouts of both buildings intimately.
And I believe that this particular entry chronicling the doings of my friend shall remain unpublished. No one would believe the circumstances that I alone can confirm as witness, nor would they understand the suppositions that I have additionally made.
Can the many unusual circumstances be a coincidence? I think not. Nor do I believe that Holmes has been playing his violin in the wee hours of the morning because he needs to practice.
I know him better than that. Well enough to understand that sometimes he plays to escape from whatever is haunting him and that since I awoke almost a week ago, he has been playing with a nearly maddening desperation.
I do not know what Holmes saw. I do not know what he is hiding from me. I dare not ask him a second time after his very obvious lies to me.
He is hiding something from me; not to be cruel or because of a guilty conscience. I know him far better than that. He is hiding something because he believes he is protecting me from knowledge too disturbing to easily digest, and that simple fact frightens me more than anything has frightened me in my life.
I am grateful to Holmes for his kindness.
I merely wish I could help him past whatever he experienced the night that Emily Corin kissed me. I should also very much wish to look in a mirror…
The Tragic Case of the Child Prodigy
William Patrick Maynard
Of the many adventures that I have shared with Sherlock Holmes, the case I record here may well stand as our most harrowing. It began, unremarkably, with a concert performance. My wife was unexpectedly taken ill and, desiring that our plans for the evening should not prove a total loss, insisted that I call upon my old friend to take her place.
“If you have no prior engagements, Holmes, I would be grateful if you would take Mary’s seat at The Lyceum this evening.” I said, as I sat by the fireplace enjoying my brandy.
Sherlock Holmes pulled an unpleasant face as he stared out of the rain-streaked window looking out on Baker Street below.
“I should brave this horrid weather in order to attend a concert when I can spend a relaxing evening at home by the fire?”
“I daresay this is hardly just any concert performance, Holmes. Indeed, why it is only the most eagerly anticipated social event of the season. This evening Arthur Tremayne is performing for the first time on the London stage. Surely you are aware of him. He is the sensation of Europe.”
“Tremayne?” Holmes repeated the name. “A pianist, isn’t he? No, I’m mistaken. I’m thinking of Ellis.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. Sherlock Holmes was undoubtedly possessed of one of the finest minds in the world, but the gaps in his knowledge frequently concerned the very topics that most men and women were eagerly discussing in the course of daily conversation.
“Arthur Tremayne, Holmes, the acclaimed violinist. Surely you are familiar with him or at least read something of his accomplishments. He’s been in all the papers.”
Holmes’ face remained masked in indifference.
“You really haven’t a clue about the young man we are discussing? Remarkable, truly it is. I am very nearly speechless. Arthur Tremayne the child prodigy. He has only been the talk of music circles for the past two years. Tonight is his homecoming.”
A glint of recognition appeared in Holmes’ eyes as I spoke, but it soon vanished and was replaced by a look of jaded disapproval.
“Watson, gifted children only prove exceptional when measured against their peers. I hardly expect a mere youth to rival a master musician skilled in the subtlety and grace of the violin.”
I rose to my feet, determined to not let Holmes get away with such a statement.
“There are times, Holmes, when I suspect you harbour a secret jealousy toward anyone other than yourself who is able to command the attention and respect of others.”
“Pure rubbish, Watson and we both know it. You’ve been reading that Austrian doctor and his risible theories again, haven’t you? I positively detest child prodigies. They are insufferable misfits unable to relate to children their own age or their elders. Do you have any idea what sort of person a child prodigy grows up to be, Watson?”
“Of course I do, Holmes. One would have to be quite obtuse to have lived with you for so many years and not recognized you for one yourself. Now, Mary was sorely disappointed at the prospect of not being able to attend tonight’s performance and was adamant that I invite you in her stead. Since I know for a fact that you have nothing better to do this evening save for worrying poor Mrs. Hudson into an early grave with your infernal target practice or your malodorous scientific experiments, I will tolerate no other response from you save your gracious acceptance of my hospitality.”
For a moment, I detected the beginnings of a mischievous grin until Holmes buried his amusement beneath a furrowed brow.
“All right, all right … I’ll go or I’ll never hear the end of it. However, I won’t enjoy myself and don’t expect me to speak to the boy marvel afterwards. Now where the deuce did I leave my hat?”
Happily, Arthur Tremayne did not disappoint. Everyone in the theatre that night, Holmes included, was dazzled to be in the presence of a mere child possessed of so great a talent. Throughout the course of the evening, the boy produced a variety of violins and each found its own unique expression with the aid of his fingers.
Never once did his face betray the pompous scowl of the poseur, instead it was the studied concentration of one entirely immersed in his art. The boy gave himself over completely to his performance. It was truly spectacular. Holmes and I eagerly joined the throng who gave the boy a standing ovation at the conclusion of the final piece. There was no encore and that was as it should be.
“Let us see if he will spare us a few moments backstage. I would like to pay my respects.” Holmes shouted above the din as we stood among the barely moving mass of bodies inching toward the theatre’s exit.
The manager of The Lyceum was a heavy-set, silver-haired, bewhiskered gentleman called Jago. Holmes and I had been of some trifling assistance to him some months back. He was pleased to see us again and more than happy to show us backstage; provided that he could further his reputation by introducing Holmes and I as his friends.
Jago’s knock upon the dressing room door was answered by a thin, dark-haired man with curling tufts of reddish blonde hair framing both cheeks.
“What do you want, Mr. Jago?” The thin man rasped.
“A few minutes stolen from the delightful Mr. Tremayne’s busy schedule and nothing more, I assure you, Mr. Chase. That is if he can spare a few minutes to meet my very good friend, the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street and his companion, Dr. Watson.”
The man called Chase looked us over carefully from his position behind the door before turning his eyes back to Jago and responding, “Master Tremayne is very tired following his performance. He has to rise early tomorrow and resume his studies. He is still a student, after all. He shall, however, be quite happy to receive your famous friends for a few minutes before he retires for the night.”
Jago turned and beamed at us and took a step forward. The thin man held up a neatly-manicured hand and brought Jago to a stop.
“Just your famous friends, I am afraid. Master Tremayne is quite exhausted, as I have explained.”
“Now see here!” Jago sputtered. His face flushed with indignation.
“Be a good chap an
d don’t make a fuss.” Holmes smiled as we pushed past the blustering theatre manager.
Mr. Chase shut the door behind us and stepped aside. The dressing room was sparsely decorated and overly lit. A pleasant-looking boy dressed in striped pyjamas sat up on the bed where he lay and smiled wanly at us.
“That will be all, Bertram. I would speak to these gentlemen in private.”
Chase looked irritated at his curt dismissal by the boy.
“No more than five minutes, Master Tremayne and then you must get to bed.” He left without another word.
“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. Truly, it is an honour to meet you, gentlemen. Your visit here tonight is most fortuitous.” The boy replied in response to our praise of his performance. “Please be seated.”
He gestured toward the chair that stood next to the door. I retrieved it while Holmes grasped a chair facing the large dressing mirror adjacent to the boy’s bed.
Once we were seated, Arthur Tremayne leaned forward and lowered his voice as if addressing fellow conspirators, “I haven’t much time. Bertram is always watching me and listening to my conversations.”
He paused momentarily to listen cautiously before continuing.
“Your reputation precedes the both of you. Forgive me for the abrupt nature of this request, but I beseech you to aid my efforts to locate my mother and obtain her release.”
“Release? Is she in prison?” I asked.
“Yes, in a manner of speaking. Sadly, it is a prison of her choosing. My mother has been a student of the occult for many years. Moving in such circles, it is perhaps unsurprising that she should follow the man reckoned to be its most accomplished Adept.”
“You speak, of course, of Christopher Frawley.”
The boy nodded. “Yes, Mr. Holmes and I curse his name in so doing. He is a rogue and a villain. Were it within my power to do so, I would thrash him within an inch of his life.”
Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes Page 11
