Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Jeff Campbell

  He did not exaggerate. The creature’s speed had increased rapidly. I gasped as I waited to witness Holmes’ imminent death. No emotion showed upon my old friend’s face and yet, he must have understood that his fate was unavoidable. There would be no escape for the great Sherlock Holmes this time.

  A look of intense concentration came over him. For the moment, I felt as if I could read my old friend’s mind for I knew Holmes was rapidly calculating the velocity and speed of the creature’s movement. Paying no heed to the odds, Holmes struck forth with his sword and succeeded in lodging his blade within the small opening of the creature’s left wrist from where the slicing blade emerged.

  The creature jittered with barely restrained movement and the sound of grinding metal rang out once more as steam escaped from its body. Holmes let go of the sword hilt and dived low between the creature’s legs. Knees and elbows slightly bent, Holmes propelled himself along the floor on his stomach.

  Once free of Holmes’ grip, the creature resumed its relentless push forward, casting Holmes’ sword aside with its good hand. The creature’s sword hand continued to slice the entire time, wreaking terrible damage upon the back wall with its blade. The masonry began to crumble before its tireless onslaught.

  “You bungling meddler!” Frawley cried and set upon an exhausted Holmes, savagely kicking at my friend’s head and chest where he lay upon the ground.

  Jumping to my feet, I did my best to defend Holmes. Forcing my bruised and bloodied knuckles into fists once more, I began wailing blow after blow upon the small man’s head.

  “Help! Someone stop him, you fools!” Frawley cried, doing his best to fend me off.

  No sooner had he called for their aid, his followers were upon me. My arms were pinned behind me and I was dragged backwards away from the terrible scene. Holmes lay still on the floor and I feared I was too late to help him.

  The creature with its slicing blade began to slowly advance on me, sword arm spinning in a blur of movement all the while.

  “Kill him!” Frawley shouted to the creature, pointing directly at me. “Kill him now!”

  “What the bloody hell is that?”

  I recognized the guttural voice as belonging to the ugly brute with the unseeing eye who had allowed us entrance into The Hellfire Club a scant hour before, though it now seemed a lifetime ago. I glanced in his direction and saw him standing just inside the doorway, the wooden door unlocked and open behind him. His jaw hung slack as his one good eye stared in abject terror at the ungodly sight before him.

  “Why do you distract me with your senseless prattle, man? What do you want?” Frawley snapped in irritation.

  “Begging your pardon, sir!” The apelike man inclined his head slightly as he recovered and moved several steps closer to the centre of the room. “Mr. Chase is here and says to tell you that…”

  The bald-headed man stopped speaking in mid-sentence as he stared in amazement at the unclothed woman with a spinning sword where her hand should have been who was slowly advancing toward me with obviously murderous intent.

  Overcome with anger at his intrusion, Frawley stormed across the room and pushed roughly at the much larger man.

  “Get out! Get out of here, you ignorant buffoon before you spoil everything!”

  Angered and confused, the bald-headed man lifted an arm to defend himself from his master’s unwarranted abuse and in so doing, inadvertently sent Frawley sprawling across the floor.

  “Forgive me, sir. I didn’t mean to cause you any grief.” The oafish man stammered sheepishly as he reached down to help Frawley back to his feet.

  “Useless jackanapes!” Frawley swore and grasping the man’s arm with both hands hurled him forward directly into the path of the creature and her spinning blade.

  I shut my eyes as tight as I could manage. There was an awful scream and I felt a warm wetness as the man’s blood splattered over my face and soaked my clothing. My arms were released and I opened my eyes to see Frawley’s followers rushing toward the open door.

  “Stop, you fools! Come back! Don’t leave me here!” Frawley cried in anguish and rage at their retreat.

  “Watson, help me!”

  Holmes’ voice called me back to attention. In a moment I took in all that my mind would dare to process. Little remained of the bald-headed man except for bits of bloodied, butchered meat sitting upon a pair of stocky, bowed legs as the creature’s spinning blade continued its relentless work.

  Holmes was no longer lying prone on the floor, but stood beside the poor helpless woman seated in the chair with the metal cap fastened tight upon her head still pulsing with electricity.

  “Hurry, Watson! We must free her!” Holmes cried.

  He busily set to work trying to liberate her from the machine by gently sliding her out from her seat, but the metal cap held tight and would not fall free.

  Rushing to his side, I hesitated to grasp the metal cap or the connecting wires for fear of receiving a fatal shock.

  Holmes cradled the woman called Deidre in his arms. I had never seen my old friend look so helpless before. Seized with inspiration, I grasped the wooden chair she had been sitting upon and lifted it high above my head.

  “Stop, you fool, you don’t know what you are doing!” Frawley cried.

  “Watson, wait!” Holmes yelled.

  I heard both of them, but could not check my actions. I swung the chair down in an arc, snagging the electric wire around three of its legs. Wrenching the chair aside, I hurled it as far away from me as I could manage.

  I cannot recall the exact sequence of what followed. There were sparks and smoke and several explosions of varying force. I was thrown several feet away from the wall and was burned rather badly on one side of my body.

  I lay still for a few moments until I was sure that nothing was broken. Rising slowly to my feet. I saw the creature standing inert, back bent slightly and arms hanging limply at its side. The electric light behind its eyes had gone dim once more.

  “I did it, Holmes!” I shouted. “I destroyed that abomination.”

  There was a pause and I searched through the stinging smoke for some sign of my old friend.

  “Yes, Watson. You stopped it.” Holmes spoke quietly.

  I stumbled toward his voice and saw him kneeling upon the ground with the lifeless form of the woman called Deidre in his arms. I had stopped the creature, but in so doing, I had robbed a woman of her life.

  “Oh, Holmes! What have I done?”

  “She was doomed anyway, Watson. The automaton was draining the life from her for it was her brain that controlled its actions. She could not have gone on indefinitely.”

  “No, not indefinitely. Not this time.” Frawley stood before us with the discarded sword in his hand. “But next time, we shall not fail. Next time, we shall not have to deal with Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his interfering Doctor friend.”

  “Frawley, wait!”

  I turned at a familiar voice and saw Bertram Chase running through the doorway.

  “The fire brigade will be on their way. You’re fortunate that The Greyhound Tavern is closed, that explosion…”

  “Never mind the explosion, Bertram, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you with the boy?” Frawley snarled.

  “That is why I came. The boy knows. He has sent Sherlock Holmes…”

  Chase paused as he noticed Holmes and me standing behind Frawley, the dead woman still cradled in Holmes’ arms.

  “Yes, very good, Bertram, your timing is impeccable. Is there anything else you’d like to tell me that I already know?”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Chase said, fumbling for words.

  “Yes you are, Bertram.” Frawley replied and plunged his sword through Bertram Chase’s heart.

  The poor man went white as a ghost. He gasped and gurgled as he choked on his own blood before plunging, unexpectedly, forward upon his face. The blade pushed deeper through his body as he fell, emerging from between his shoulder blade and spine in a bloody mess.r />
  The clanging bell of the fire brigade sounded from down the street. Frawley turned to us and smiled charmingly.

  “I fear I must bid you adieu, gentlemen. I am quite sure our paths will cross again. In fact, I guarantee it. Until that day, gentlemen … watch your backs.”

  Christopher Frawley departed with a mocking salute and flitted out through the open door and made good his escape.

  “It’s over, Holmes. At last it is over.” I said to my old friend.

  “No, Watson.” Holmes said shaking his head and looking up from the face of the dead woman in his arms. “The worst is only beginning.”

  I looked down at poor Deidre. “Pity we don’t know her surname. It will make contacting family that much more challenging.”

  “We do know her name, Watson.” Holmes replied. “This is Deidre Tremayne.”

  Inspector Lestrade was called to The Greyhound Tavern. Holmes gave a statement regarding Christopher Frawley and Bertram Chase. As Holmes had feared, the scandal regarding Arthur Tremayne’s parentage and the shocking murder that followed his mother’s interest in the occult became fodder for the press for many weeks.

  Poor Arthur Tremayne took the news of his mother’s death very badly. Holmes was successful in convincing Inspector Lestrade that the automaton made in the likeness of Deidre Tremayne could not be made public. The boy never learned of the atrocity. As I complete my account of this adventure, I am relieved to know Arthur Tremayne will be long since dead before it ever sees the light of day.

  There was little that could be done to restore the boy’s earnings as the bank account Christopher Frawley had opened in the organization’s name had been largely depleted. The funds had either been spent in acts of charity or had been used to fund Frawley’s experiments at The Hellfire Club. Either way, Arthur Tremayne was left a near penniless orphan at the age of thirteen.

  “My mother was a dancer.” The boy said to us sometime later in Holmes’ Baker Street lodgings. “She was a very good dancer. Perhaps, had things been different, she might have found great success and happiness.”

  “One does not necessarily follow on from the other.” Holmes spoke solemnly.

  “That is very true, Mr. Holmes.” The boy replied. “I won’t be performing on the concert stage again.”

  I smiled and placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

  “For a time, my boy, that is certainly for the best. However, you shall play again and the people will recall your gift and marvel anew and they shall not think unpleasant thoughts when they hear your name.”

  “No, Dr. Watson.” Arthur Tremayne shook his head sadly. “I shall not touch the violin again. I have made up my mind. There is no one to play for, Doctor. There is no one to love. Without my mother, my music is meaningless.”

  Holmes knelt before the boy and placed heavy hands on both the boy’s shoulders.

  “I once felt as you did, Arthur. My childhood had its share of pain and sadness as well. To deny your gift is utter foolishness for it is your gift that gives you the strength to endure the pain of remembering. Your gift allows you to give pleasure to others to help them, in turn, forget their own pain and sadness. Do not close the door to your talent. Think on what I have said, Arthur.”

  Holmes started to rise when unexpectedly, Arthur Tremayne embraced him and gave vent to the tears he had been struggling to keep inside. They were much alike, Holmes and the boy. I wished it were possible for Holmes to stay in Arthur’s life and, I felt certain, it would be better for Holmes to have Arthur in his, but it was not to be.

  After that wet summer morning, neither of us ever set eyes on Arthur Tremayne again. The boy made good on his promise. He never played violin in public again. The passing years have made me think of him often, but I never knew what became of him or what path he took in life. Some cases are never truly closed.

  After the boy’s departure, Holmes and I sat before the fireplace in silence and smoked our pipes together as had been our fashion for the many years we shared at 221B Baker Street. It felt good to rekindle the tradition.

  “What did Frawley call that automaton, Holmes?”

  My old friend paused and sucked on the end of his pipe.

  “Agathodaimon.” He finally replied.

  “No, no. Not the name he called her by. I recall that for some reason, but I cannot recollect the sort of creature it was. He said it once.”

  Holmes sat and smoked in silence for a few minutes.

  “I believe he referred to it as an … an anthroparion.” He replied. “I wouldn’t think on it too hard if I were you. The man is, as I described him, a fraud and a blackguard. His creation, while admittedly advanced, was still a mechanical invention.”

  “Holmes, you said yourself that Deidre Tremayne’s brain directed the creature’s movements. Surely that implies some degree of supernatural ability on Frawley’s part.”

  Holmes sighed and shook his head.

  “Watson, why ask me to draw conclusions for you? Decide for yourself whether Frawley commanded supernatural powers or simply drew upon a long forgotten science.”

  “If it is the former, then everything my life is based upon as a medical man is rendered meaningless.”

  Holmes chuckled at my earnestness. “Watson, you exaggerate greatly. One’s life does not change based on the conclusions one draws regarding the supernatural, merely the point of view. The proof you seek goes unanswered until death and may very well prove inconclusive if all consciousness ceases when your heart beats no more.”

  I thought upon his words for a few minutes.

  “Holmes, do you truly believe in the supernatural?”

  “I believe in what I know to be fact, Watson and nothing more. We saw nothing at The Hellfire Club to alter my belief that man is best served by learning only from what he observes. That is to say, the science of rational deduction is little more than bringing to light that which was previously obscured.”

  “Does the same then hold for magic?”

  “Magic is a poor word as it is frequently used to describe two very different situations. In the first instance, it is nothing more than deception. In the second it encompasses that which man cannot, as yet, explain scientifically. There are those who say if enough people believe in something, it will come to pass. Whether one calls that belief or magic is of little import to me until such time as I may observe the phenomena or understand a scientific explanation of its cause.”

  We stayed silent a while longer until it was Holmes who spoke up, “Have you thought what you shall title this adventure, Watson?”

  I smoked for a bit as I pondered that question.

  “I was thinking of Angels of Mercy as a title, Holmes, but I fear my readers would suspect that I was speaking of the charitable organization and not our intrepid heroes.”

  I chuckled at my own joke in amusement.

  Holmes considered the matter some more and then smiled, “I would think Angels of Darkness would be a better title for this adventure, but I shall, as always, bow to your judgement in such matters. In any event, you certainly won’t be publishing your chronicle anytime soon.”

  I nodded my head in agreement. I still wasn’t sure about Angels of Darkness as a title. I would have to speak to Conan Doyle about it and ask his advice.

  Holmes rose from his chair and stood by the window to look down upon Baker Street below.

  “You had best head home and tend to your wife, Watson. I have a busy day in front of me. I think I shall begin by fetching Billy the page boy and seeing if young Mr. Pons would be interested in learning the proper way to play the violin.”

  The Last Windigo

  Hayden Trenholm

  Following the excitement that led to the capture of Colonel Sebastian Moran and the return of Sherlock Holmes to his accustomed lodgings at 221B Baker Street, life seemed to take a pause. In the early months of 1894, cases were few and far between and I worried that Holmes might once again be drawn into the lethargy and despair that plagued him when
his keen mind went unchallenged.

  For myself, I retained my own lodgings though I dreaded returning to them each night. I felt my wife’s absence keenly and even the presence of my dear friend could not assuage the grief I felt at her loss. It was as if her spirit still haunted our modest flat, a feeling that now seems a premonition of the events that were to come.

  It was toward the end of June that I arrived at my consulting rooms to find Holmes pacing in the outer chamber. His appearance brought feelings of surprise, pleasure and guilt in equal measures, for despite my joy at his return I had seen little of him since the events chronicled in The Empty House, so consumed had I been with my own troubles.

  “Still the late riser, I see, Watson,” he said by way of greeting. “Though I see that none of your clients expect anything more of you.”

  I grumbled a reply, for I had slept poorly and was in no mood to be reminded of the paucity of patients in my practice. I ushered him into my consultorium where he immediately sprawled in one of the two leather chairs, which, along with a small desk, a cabinet containing my instruments and an examining table, made up the sole furnishings of my inner sanctum. He gazed at me languidly for several moments before speaking again.

  “My brother, Mycroft, has placed an interesting proposition before me that I thought you might find of some interest.”

  I leaned forward in my own chair, feeling for the first time in months the old excitement that working with Holmes always engendered in my breast.

  “A case affecting the national interest?”

  “The imperial interest,” replied Holmes, leaping to his feet and resuming his pacing.

  Now my interest was truly piqued. I felt a deep sense of pride that my friend would seek my aid in such an important matter.

  “You know you can count on me, Holmes.”

  “It may require an absence of several months and a sea voyage; for the plot is being hatched in Canada.”

  I glanced around my sparsely furnished suite. There was nothing to keep me in London and yet I hesitated. Was it the lingering feelings of grief that held me transfixed or some preternatural awareness of the horrors that awaited us across the ocean?