Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Jeff Campbell

  I was startled to hear a mere boy speak with such vitriol.

  “Forgive my bluntness, Doctor, but I am justified in saying so. I have not seen my mother in nearly a year. He has her. Bertram Chase, my tutor and guardian, is also in his pay. He sees to it that my not inconsiderable earnings are diverted to one of Frawley’s bank accounts.”

  I was unable to contain myself. “That cannot be! I read in the press that the lion’s share of your earnings support a charitable organisation called the Angels of Mercy. They have done tremendous good in the East End.”

  “That is true, Doctor. Perhaps I should explain so we better understand one another. My mother was never married. She was still a child herself when my grandfather put her out on the street after learning of her condition. Years later, when it became apparent that I was capable of achieving greatness as a musician, she was adamant we should support the very institution that sheltered and fed us for so long. That is where she first met Christopher Frawley for it is he who founded and operates the Angels of Mercy.”

  “You must be joking!”

  “No, I’m afraid it’s quite true, Watson.” Holmes replied. “The self-proclaimed ‘Wickedest Man in the World’ manages the very agency that ministers to the crippled beggars on Cannon Street. Such men often choose to cloak their iniquity beneath the guise of respectability.”

  “You say this man is swindling you of your fortune and holds your mother captive. These allegations are outrageous. Why then do you not turn to the authorities?” I stammered.

  “Oh come now, Watson, be reasonable. If the boy does so, he is ruined. Think of the scandal that would follow. Besides, this Bertram fellow isn’t about to let him out of his sight long enough. No, if something is to be done, it must be done without his direct involvement. We will look into the matter, young man. Brave heart, you shall hear from us soon.”

  There was a sudden knock upon the door and Mr. Chase’s voice called out.

  “Master Tremayne?”

  “Thank you so much for your time, gentlemen.” The boy whispered. “Until we meet again.”

  Lying back upon his pillow, he called out in a bored voice, “You may come in, Bertram.”

  The door opened and the thin man I had immediately distrusted stepped into the room.

  “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. I am afraid it is time for you to take your leave.”

  We rose from our chairs. I thanked Mr. Chase for allowing us to speak with such a talented young man and we made our way to the street to hail a cab. I was pleased to note that for the first time in many days it had ceased raining.

  “I fear the worst, Watson.” Holmes said as we settled into the cab.

  “You think the boy’s mother may already be…”

  “Oh, I don’t care to speculate upon her condition with any degree of certainty, but even if she is in perfect health, it is likely this will not turn out well for the lad. At least we may assure ourselves we can put a stop to this insidious pilfering of the boy’s earnings.”

  “Is this Frawley character as bad as his reputation suggests?”

  “Well he’s certainly no saint, Watson, despite his philanthropic enterprise. The man is a charlatan. He exploits diabolists to satisfy his lust for power and pleasure. They, in turn, receive a guide to follow upon the path to Damnation.”

  “And Arthur Tremayne’s mother is one of these followers of his?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Wouldn’t it be best to refer the matter to Inspector Lestrade?”

  “No, Watson. If anything is to be done, it must be done by the two of us and tonight.”

  “But, Holmes, how…?”

  “It is Sunday night. Christopher Frawley will still be at his club. We will meet him there.”

  “Holmes, it’s nearly midnight. How can you possibly be certain of his whereabouts?”

  “Frawley is Abbot of The Hellfire Club. The Lord’s Day was selected for their meetings as an act of blasphemy.”

  “The Hellfire Club!” I gasped.

  “Yes, Watson. The most notorious gentleman’s club in all of London is situated in the private backroom of The Greyhound Tavern and has been for many decades barring occasions when official scrutiny gives its members cause to burrow deeper underground.”

  “And Christopher Frawley is the president of this club?”

  “No, Watson. He is the Abbot. The title of president is reserved for Satan himself. An honorary title only, one presumes. Members of the club, including the women, are called devils.”

  “Women are admitted?”

  “I’m afraid this is a long way from The Diogenes Club, Watson.”

  “How did you learn all of this, Holmes?”

  “Christopher Frawley has long been on my list of individuals whose activities bear tracking. Happily, there are men whose tongues can be loosened for a price even among diabolists. Scotland Yard would love to see Frawley behind bars as well. The trouble is catching him breaking the law is not as simple as one might suppose. He is a clever beast beyond a doubt.”

  “Harrumph!” I snorted, derisively.

  Holmes smiled at my outrage, but said no more until the cab reached our destination.

  “The Greyhound Tavern.” Holmes spoke wistfully as he stepped from the cab. I paid the man our fare and listened as the clopping of the horseshoes diminished upon the wet brickwork that led away from the tavern.

  “We’ll use the tradesman’s entrance in the rear.” Holmes spoke in a low voice.

  I followed him round the back into a damp alleyway. We approached a pair of heavy metal doors. Holmes rapped upon the door loudly with his fist. After a moment, a panel, set barely five feet above the ground, opened in the door on the right revealing a pair of eyes.

  I gasped as I found myself looking upon a swollen eye that lay dead in its socket. It stared sightlessly to one side, unable to move. Its mate was quite normal and glaring at us all the more animatedly in contrast to its inert companion.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” A harsh, guttural voice spoke from behind the panel.

  “I am Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr. Watson.” Holmes spoke, seemingly unaffected by the grisly eye or the coarse tone of its bearer. “We wish to have a few words with Abbot Frawley.”

  “Why should I let you near the Abbot?” The man barked.

  “Fais ce que tu voudras.” Holmes replied, dismissively.

  I barely had time to translate in my head when the man at the door answered gruffly in a similar dismissive tone, “Do what thou will.”

  One of the heavy metal doors was unbarred and swung open to allow us entry.

  The man with the dead eye was wide and squat and dressed in drab workingman’s clothes of a dull grey. Long arms crossed over one another and rested on his barrel chest. Stubby and slightly bowed, but notably muscular legs supported his heavy frame. The man’s head was devoid of hair and resembled that of a gorilla in shape. The flat nose and flaring nostrils only enhanced his resemblance to that monstrous jungle beast.

  He reached forward and searched us, quite efficiently, for weapons. Satisfied, he lumbered off without a word. Holmes and I glanced at one another before determining to follow him.

  He opened a wooden door round the next corner and gestured roughly for us to enter. I felt a pang of trepidation as Holmes and I entered the room. Once inside, I barely noticed the sound of the wooden door locking shut behind us as I gazed upon a sight both fantastic and terrible.

  Mythological figures, hogsheads, and foul symbols of an obscene nature adorned the walls of the room. Men and women, dressed identically in white trousers, jackets, and caps lay decadently beside one another on cushions and pillows spread upon a tiled floor otherwise devoid of furniture. At the front of the room stood a man dressed, in contrast to his audience, in red trousers, jacket, and cap. Two women slumped beside him in chairs. Neither woman was clothed.

  A thin, transparent cord connected the left arm of one woman to the right arm of the other. A yel
low liquid flowed between them through the cord. A metal cap sat upon the first woman’s head. Wires trailed from the cap and connected to a queer device that stood four feet from the ground and rested against the wall. The man in red, who addressed the audience, went on lecturing in complete ignorance of our entrance. He was of small stature with neat flaming orange hair and dark eyes that shone like diamonds encrusted in coal.

  “My fellow devils, we have achieved a great ambition. Our sacrifices before Bacchus and Venus have not gone unnoticed. We have realised the dreams of Zosimos of Panopolis. At long last, Brother Milagro has arranged for his friends in Venice and Paris to provide us with the pages we have sought for so long. Pages transcribed from the Byzantium compendium of alchemical manuscripts. The secrets of the Hermetic and Sethian brotherhoods are now ours. We have stripped bare the composition of the human soul. We have charted its movement and growth to comprehend how it embodies life and bonds with this useless husk of tissue we call human.”

  He gestured to the women at his right.

  “Tonight you shall see this same spirit drawn out of one body and transferred into another lifeless husk. This woman’s soul shall bond with an artificial body and give it life. The secrets the Fallen Angels shared with their mortal wives to transmute copper into gold were nothing compared with the transformation of life. This night we shall surpass Enoch and John in their knowledge of the secrets of creation.”

  He moved to the right so that only the woman with the metal cap upon her skull was now visible.

  “You see before you, Deidre. She whom we all have loved for many years. Deidre, whose sacrifice these past months surpasses the contribution of all others. Deidre, whose soul shall enter into a body of my own creation and live in a new form, one of brass and lead covered in synthesised flesh.”

  He stepped aside again so that both women were once more visible. I stared disbelieving at what he claimed to be an artificial woman for the two of them were so alike as to be sisters. I watched the breasts of the woman on the left rise and fall slowly. She lived, but appeared to be sleeping with eyes wide open. Her companion, in contrast, lay lifeless and stared blankly at the audience with unblinking eyes.

  “Deidre who has undergone the inner process of purification and redemption by receiving the tincturing vapours of mercury and sulphur. Her lifeless twin that you see before you is Deidre perfected. She is Deidre redeemed. She is Agathodaimon.”

  He smacked his chest with both hands as he continued.

  “I am no longer Abbot Frawley, but Ion, High Priest of the Inner Sanctum for it is Ion who has submitted Deidre to the unendurable torments.”

  There was a murmur of excitement through the crowd at his words. I felt a shiver snake down my spine as I considered what form of torments would be termed unendurable by diabolists.

  “Some of you may doubt the veracity of my claims. Fear not, for doubt is the keystone of all we embrace. You shall have your proof. As the last of Deidre’s transmuted soul enters into the body of the anthroparion, I shall disembody her and separate her lifeless husk into its four component elements.”

  Abbot Frawley held out his arms in appeal. One of his followers, seated in the front, stood and approached him, bearing a scabbard as if it were a holy object. Frawley took the sword and removed it from its scabbard. The young man then received the scabbard and bowed in reverence before returning to his seat. Without a word, Frawley held the blade high and prepared to begin his grisly butchering.

  “Hold!” Holmes’ voice boomed imperiously as he stalked forward through the crowd.

  I stood, rooted to the spot, as I watched my friend fearlessly approach the front of the room. None stood to block his path. He reached Frawley’s side unmolested.

  The little man stood his ground, eyes gleaming, orange hair and red cap giving the appearance of flames upon his head. He smiled humourlessly, baring sharp little teeth as if preparing to attack. He touched the tip of the sword to Holmes’ throat.

  “You, an unwelcome guest, would interfere with my completing a ritual in accordance with the rules of harmony?”

  He gestured toward the lifeless body of the second woman with the sword.

  “Is this not the composition of nature? The sight you see is the entrance, the exit, the transformation. Those who seek to obtain perfection enter here and become spirit. The spirit escapes from the body. It is simple distillation.”

  “More like simple deception.” Holmes scoffed.

  “Deception? You dare accuse me of deceiving my fellow devils?”

  “Yes, it is all you have ever done.” Holmes laughed. “You are far too intelligent a man to believe this Gnostic nonsense and they are only too happy to be deceived. None are more willing to close their minds than those who would believe the impossible.”

  “What of you?” Frawley hissed. “Would you believe the truth if it were put before your eyes or would you remain wilfully blind to that which is not only possible, but factual?”

  “Give me the sword…” Holmes said, reaching for the weapon. “…and you may show me your proof.”

  Frawley did not hesitate, but handed the hilt of the sword to Holmes and turned aside to approach the queer device that stood against the wall. Crouching down, he fussed with its dials and threw what looked to be an electrical switch. A small wheel, such as that which may control a winch, was set on the device. Frawley grasped it between his small, childlike hands and fought to turn the wheel, as if opening a valve.

  The queer device rumbled and began to emit steam. Frawley backed away quickly as a shower of sparks sprayed forth. An unpleasant odour permeated the room. I watched in disbelief as the wires that connected the metal cap upon the woman’s head to the device set against the wall glowed with electric light. The woman’s very form quaked. Her mouth hung open and a low wordless sound emerged from her lips — such as I hope to never hear another human being utter for as long as I may live.

  “Your proof!” Frawley cried. “Behold Agathodaimon!”

  The last of the yellow liquid had disappeared from the cord that connected the two women. The lifeless woman had now begun to quake as well. The entire room felt as if it were about to cave in on itself. An unexpected jerk tore the cord free and the once-lifeless woman stood up from her seat.

  I thought my heart would burst as I realised the woman who had come to life was anything but human. A light glowed behind her eyes, but there was no hint of consciousness. The movements of her neck, limbs, and spine as she stood and looked upon her creator were unnatural. Her breasts did not rise and fall for there was no air in her lungs. I saw and believed that this was no woman of flesh and blood. Frawley had brought life to a woman of brass and lead just as he claimed.

  “Behold Agathodaimon!” Frawley cried. “Behold your death!”

  The entire room was in a state of uncontrolled panic. The men and women in their white outfits scrambled back as far as they could. I was pressed tight against the locked wooden door through which we had entered this nightmare. Only Holmes and Frawley gave no outward sign of fear as that awful creature, that so looked like a woman, slowly began to advance menacingly upon Holmes. I searched the creature’s face for some sign of emotion, but there was none to find.

  Holmes held his sword at the ready and adopted a fencing stance. The creature lumbered to a halt a few inches from him and grasped its left hand in its right and began to twist its own wrist. There was a terrible sound of grinding metal as she unscrewed her left hand from the end of her arm. As the hand fell and clattered to the floor, I beheld no blood from its stump, but rather the edge of a blade protruding a few inches from her wrist. She lifted her arm and sliced through the air. The blade extended to a length of more than a foot. There could be no mistaking her intent, the creature meant to engage Holmes in a duel to the death.

  Unfazed, my friend met the challenge bravely and parried blow after blow. Thrusting, when the opportunity presented itself, at her unprotected body. Holmes’ efforts with his blade were fo
r naught as the creature’s bare flesh could not be pierced. Try as he might, the creature held the advantage and began pressing him toward the back wall where he could scarcely hope to avoid its slicing blade forever.

  Resolving that inactivity would do nothing to help Holmes avoid death, I pushed forward. The cowering men and women were less passive this time. I was jostled and thrown aside as I attempted to move through the throng. Knowing that each wasted second might mean Holmes’ life, I threw punches in retaliation. Not since my time overseas in the service of the Crown had I felt such a keen sense of exhilaration as men and women scattered or fell before my fists. In truth, I was fortunate they were so frightened by the creature that they did not direct their full attention upon me or I would surely have been ripped to shreds where I stood.

  I glanced quickly at Holmes. His back was against the wall and his face was covered in perspiration. He was visibly tiring as he fought to block slice after slice from the creature’s relentless sword arm. He could not last much longer. I had to act quickly and wisely.

  Frawley was occupied watching Holmes fence with his creation. I was granted clear access to the machinery. I passed by the woman called Deidre. She was still seated in the chair. Life remained in her body despite the electric hum of the metal cap and trailing wire that connected to the queer device against the wall. If only fortune would smile on me and allow me to halt the creature’s actions quickly enough to save my friend.

  Bending, I fought to turn the small wheel as I had seen Frawley do mere minutes before. My muscles strained against the effort. My teeth bit down into my lower lip as I pressed on with all my strength. Slowly, I felt the wheel give under the pressure and once more the sound of grinding metal drowned out all other sounds.

  Within a second, Frawley was upon me. His childlike hands grasped me by the shoulders and cast me down upon my back. The man was laughing maniacally as he stood over me, pointing towards Holmes and the creature.

  “See the fruits of your efforts, you fool!” He cried. “You have increased Agathodaimon’s strength by tenfold. Your friend is doomed. Thank you! Thank you, very much!”