Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Jeff Campbell

  The Prince took out a solid silver cigarette case, and on opening, offered it to Holmes.

  “No, thank you, I prefer the pipe. Do you mind?”

  “By all means.”

  Prince George lit one of the cigarettes and inhaled deeply as Holmes began to fill a small pocket pipe with a wad of tobacco from a leather pouch.

  The heir let out a plume of smoke and sighed.

  “The boarding party, Your Highness, could you elaborate?”

  “Able seamen, Charles Weaver, Martin Bower and Gavin Herbert went aboard with the First Mate, Robert Keston-Bloom. All went armed. All went with small oil-filled lanterns clipped to their belt buckles. Four good men. Good, brave men.”

  Holmes placed the pipe to his lips … and savoured the first bowl of the day.

  “And…?”

  “That was the last anyone saw of them.”

  Another drag from the cigarette. Another plume.

  “I requested to go on a second party about an hour later. That request was denied by the Second Officer but thankfully countermanded by the Captain. Eight of us went this time. We searched every room, hold, nook, cranny. Everything. Two hours and forty-two minutes later … nothing. Simply vanished into thin air.”

  “Vanished?”

  “There was something … in one of the cabins. There was a residue, some kind of slippery substance on the walls. Yet when the captain went aboard himself, the walls were dry. Tinder dry. What I am describing is not a figment of some poet’s fancy, sir.”

  Holmes’ brow bent like a cliff over his thoughts

  “From what you have described, I am indeed intrigued and have more than just a passing interest in looking at this ship.”

  “You have my staff at your disposal and whatever else you need to take with you.”

  Holmes took a small notebook and pencil from his inside jacket pocket, scribbled a few notes, tore out a page, and handed it to the Prince.

  “What is this?”

  “What I need in terms of personnel and equipment. I shall need lodgings for Watson and myself for two days and your best guards on the harbour-side. No person is to go aboard that ship. My only requests.”

  “The ship was renamed for the trip back to Mallaig. Her new nameplate reads Amazon.

  “To deflect attention, I am to assume.”

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes. And this name on the list?”

  “I have to speak with him first… and he has to come on board with us.”

  “You’ll have him.”

  “I’ve got one, Holmes!” came the excited shout from Dr. Watson.

  The two men turned to see Watson holding a wriggling salmon, no more than six inches in length; the physician beamed a great smile.

  Holmes turned back to Prince George.

  “I must apologise for my earlier words,” said Holmes shaking his head at Watson. “Not all of the fish are beautiful.”

  “Look upon it as an hors d’oeuvre. Lunch is upon us.”

  Two days later, Holmes and Watson found themselves in the small fishing port of Mallaig. A picturesque village, neatly tucked away on the coast and home to probably the best smoked kippers in Europe.

  They made their way to their lodgings, a small boarding house with a sign outside that did little to welcome anyone; the weather-beaten sign and faded paint did nothing to enamour the pair to the place but on entering their rooms, they were pleasantly surprised. The furnishings looked almost new, as were the cushions, pillows and linens.

  It was easy to understand why — in his room, a note from HRH Prince George wished Holmes a comfortable stay.

  Within thirty minutes of their arrival, the two men were sitting at a small wooden table, one of six in the dining room which also served as one of the village taverns. Like the benches on which they sat, the room was basic. Barrels behind a small bar that housed a few shelves where a varied collection of glasses and bottles fought for the limited space. A few trinkets hung on the walls in a vain attempt to entice passers-by into the establishment, along with a couple of nets on which hung three dead crabs and some shells, a couple of cutlasses and some nautical oddments. Badly painted landscapes, by fishermen and sailors given in exchange for a free meal and brew, hung by the nets. Watson was of the opinion that the landlady, one Mrs. Edna Plympton, had come off worse in the barter. That was until Holmes reminded him that they had not eaten any of her food yet.

  After a meal which both men were loathe to refuse — especially after Watson noted the size of the chef’s forearms were something akin to the average thigh — they stepped into the early evening air.

  “Sated, Watson?”

  “Certainly, Holmes. Couldn’t eat another thing. The local fare was quite delicious.”

  “It was indeed. Now we must turn our attention to matters at hand and the Celeste.” Holmes checked his pocket-watch. “Excellent, we’ve made good time today, Watson. And our guest should be waiting for us alongside its berth about now.”

  “Are you going to tell me who this fellow is?”

  “One, Joseph Jephson. A Doctor of Medicine of the University of Harvard, and ex-Consulting Physician of the Samaritan Hospital of Brooklyn.”

  “An American? Here?”

  “I was aware of the name when the original stories surrounding the Marie Celeste first surfaced. It was Dr. Jephson who challenged a number of the official theories and I had heard that he was now teaching to medical students in Edinburgh, on a two year sabbatical.”

  “Does he know what he’s coming to look at?”

  “Oh yes. Prince George was not surprised when I requested that Jephson join us. Come, Watson. Let us make haste!”

  “The weather has turned a little chilly, Holmes.” said Watson as he wound a woollen scarf around his neck and buttoned his jacket to the top.

  “You, as any, should know that a good walk after dining, especially with bracing sea air, has got to be good for you.”

  Watson face took on a grimace.

  Holmes smiled, ignoring the Doctor’s ploy to remain inside and began the short walk to the harbour-side.

  It was no more than five minutes to the berth where the Mary Celeste now found herself. Not a huge ship and typical of the commercial carriers of the time.

  The years had not been kind to her.

  Numerous owners, some good, some bad, some diabolical — had all contributed to a history that dated back to 1861 and her original home in Nova Scotia. It was only after she ran aground and salvaged in 1867, that she was repaired, refloated and renamed Mary Celeste. Since that fateful day, November 25th, 1872, nothing but bad luck has followed her, the various crews, owners and companies that had as much as a passing connection to her.

  Death, sickness, murder, fraud and bankruptcy were now the only words that could be associated with the ship, an albatross around the neck of any who engaged her service or ownership. And yet, there was always one thing that drew folk to her like moths to a flame … the mystery.

  And here she sat, almost a quarter of a century since the disappearance of the Briggs family, her crew and three passengers, among them Dr. Habakuk Jephson, the well-known Brooklyn specialist on consumption, and father of Dr. Joseph Jephson, who now stood, waiting, at the harbour-side.

  Dr. Joseph, as he preferred to be called as there could be only one Dr. Jephson, stared up at the silent hulk. The mist and almost-full moon, created an incandescent light behind the ship, turning the rigging into an unearthly cobweb and her colours, a demonic black. Dr. Joseph could feel it hanging in the air … a foreboding of some destined change.

  He hated this ship.

  He was not alone in that thought; the six guards standing on duty, armed with standard issue rifles, pistols and with lanterns to guide their way, all had the same feeling.

  “Can I help you, sir?” said the most senior of the guards. Sergeant Ambrose Merry. A strapping man, standing at six feet, six inches and weighing a trim two hundred and four pounds. He held his lantern high to get a better look at wh
o he was addressing.

  “My name is Jephson, Dr. Joseph Jephson.”

  Jephson produced documentation as to his identity and handed it to the officer, who gave it no more than a cursory glance.

  “May I ask the nature of your business, sir?”

  “I believe the good doctor is here to meet with me, Sergeant.” From out of the thickening gloom came Holmes and Watson.

  Sergeant Merry and Jephson turned toward the pair. Holmes already had a hand extended in greeting.

  “Sherlock Holmes, thank you for joining us, Dr. Jephson. This is my associate, Dr. Watson.” Handshakes and pleasantries were exchanged.

  “A real pleasure to meet the famous Sherlock Holmes.”

  Holmes turned to the officer, now standing to attention.

  “Sergeant Merry.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s good to see you again, Ambrose. How are Mary and the children?”

  “Fine, as can be expected.”

  “Sorry to bring you away from Carrick, but I needed to ensure that not so much as a mouse got on board that ship.”

  “Been here for just over thirty-two hours, brought twelve of my best with me.”

  “Would I be right in assuming the equipment that I asked for, has arrived?”

  “Yes, sir, in one of the warehouses. One of the lads will escort you over. Private Alten, front and centre.”

  A stocky, short man stepped forward, embraced in a fog of his own breath.

  “Take these gentlemen to the warehouse and stay with them until the end of your watch. Then return here and Carson will relieve you. Understand, Private?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Merry handed a lantern to Dr. Watson. A gesture that showed the soldier was a well-bred mixture of boldness and courtesy.

  “You’ll need this, Doctor.”

  “Very decent of you, Officer Merry.”

  Holmes stood forward to address the officer as Jephson and Watson followed Private Alten.

  “Ambrose, join us at our lodgings when you have finished. I’m going to need the help of a number of your men in the morning and need to discuss our plan with you tonight.”

  “My watch finishes at 2100 hours, sir.”

  “Excellent.” Holmes moved in the direction of the warehouse.

  “Mr. Holmes?”

  “Yes, Ambrose?”

  “You’ve forgotten something. This.” The soldier held up a lantern.

  In the gloom, the Mary Celeste creaked and groaned; her age showing. A mix of squeals and pops echoed throughout the labyrinth of empty rooms and holds. The air was heavy with the smell of mould and something else that was distinct, yet curiously unidentifiable. Mildew had begun to form on the glass surfaces of the ship’s portals, causing the moonlight to shine through darkness in long slits of light like pointing fingers. It was a night of great silences and spaces, punctuated by the squeaking of ancient timbers.

  Then there was a movement … something alive.

  A rat, just like many before it, had climbed up one of the large mooring ropes and onto the deck.

  There was a sense of the ship being aware.

  As the rat moved deeper into the ship, the fingers of moonlight were consumed by darkness; in steady bites until blackness reigned.

  The rat stopped, raised itself on its haunches and sniffed at the air. Its whiskers twitched. Ears searched for something other than the ship. Nothing.

  Lower deck. Pitch black.

  The rodent was nothing more than a sound in the air, as it moved closely along the wall. Searching. Searching.

  Suddenly it stopped.

  It couldn’t see anything. Couldn’t hear anything.

  The creature sensed … them.

  At first there was a gentle light, more a glow. Not enough to be noticed by anyone outside the confines of the lower holds, but enough to surround the rat. The creature turned back, but it did not make it to the stairwell.

  The walls came alive.

  Tendrils, as thin as a human hair, darted with extreme precision into the rat’s body. The number was incalculable, but each of the tendrils was tipped with poison, not enough to kill, but enough to stun, to paralyse.

  It pulled with all the might that the instinct to survive could muster, at the living things that clung to its body.

  It gnawed at one, then another.

  The stinging tendrils pulled back as teeth ripped at them, only to be replaced by yet more of the vein-like killers.

  High-pitched squeals pierced the air, but these were silenced as many tendrils held the jaws open while others invaded the rat’s throat.

  The rat continued to thrash against its bindings, but to no avail, as the tendrils held firm. A final, pitiful, screech before its lower jaw was ripped from its skull.

  Within less than a minute, the creature’s battle was near to ending.

  The attack was instinctive and brutal.

  The creature lay there, unable to move; but able to hear, to smell, to see. To feel.

  The walls began to glow brighter as the tendrils retreated back into the wooden hull and decks. They were replaced by millions of microscopic translucent insects, who swarmed en masse over the creature. The black fur now glistened white as the mass devoured the helpless animal while it still lived. In its mind, it struggled to fight off the mass. It’s last thought was more instinct than anything.

  It feared.

  As quickly as the attack began, it ended. The rat was no more. Nothing. Totally consumed … save for a small amount of liquid residue that remained.

  The insects returned to the walls. The light faded to darkness.

  Silence.

  The heavy warehouse doors opened and four silhouettes, lit by an eerie glow from their lanterns, stepped into the building. It smelled of dead fish and smoked kippers and was empty save for a collection of small cages, each no more than twelve inches long and six inches wide and high, a collection of microscopes of varying sizes, glass slides and six wooden crates marked ‘Military Property’. Holmes took a good look at the equipment and turned to Private Alten.

  “Private.”

  The soldier looked up from his own examination of the cages and gizmos.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Could you arrange to get these instruments onto tables and the contents of the boxes opened and hung up, ready to use.”

  “And the cages, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Take those down to the ship and leave them by the walkway, if you would be so kind. We shall return at first light.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Watson turned to Jephson.

  “Holmes tells me that this ship is something of a personal crusade, Doctor.”

  The American smiled.

  “A crusade. You could say that, Dr. Watson. My father was one of three passengers who vanished. Wasn’t part of the ship’s original manifest, and that’s another part of the mystery. He apparently left behind a journal, but it’s been proved nothing more than a hoax. Something akin to a writer’s fantasy to earn a few shillings, as I think you British would say.”

  “What are you hoping to find, Dr. Jephson?”

  “Some clue to what actually happened. The truth is out there and I want to be there when Holmes finds it.”

  Holmes turned toward the two gentlemen.

  “And that is what we will do, Dr. Jephson. But first we meet with officer Ambrose and firm up a plan. Come, there is much to do.”

  The warehouse doors slammed shut, leaving the soldier to set up the equipment for the next day.

  The morning broke with a cool breeze and no sign of the fog that shrouded the harbour the previous night. Four guards now stood close by to the walkway of the ship. Two others stood guard on the warehouse and Holmes’ equipment. The ship looked less imposing in daylight, almost benign.

  At the bottom of the walkway were the small cages; twelve of them, each of them now with an occupant.

  A rat.

  The warehouse door opened and out ste
pped three men dressed in strange, heavyweight rubber suits. The suits were ochre and topped off with small versions of a deep sea diving helmet, yet the complete outfit was much more manoeuvrable. Each helmet had an experimental lamp atop it, freeing up a hand that would have been wasted carrying a lantern.

  In the suits were, Sergeant Merry, Dr. Jephson and Holmes.

  Holmes turned to his colleagues and unclipped his faceplate.

  “Gentlemen, here we go. Phase One. Don’t linger, don’t stop, and don’t do anything that we did not discuss last night. If I am right, you do not want to be down there longer than need be. Do you understand?”

  The two men nodded.

  Watson stepped forward toward his friend.

  “I hope you heard your own rules, Holmes.”

  “Anything more than thirty minutes, you know what to do.”

  Holmes closed his faceplace and the three men picked up four rat-cages each.

  They entered the Celeste midship. No words passed between them.

  Sergeant Merry moved toward the bow of the ship, Holmes to the stern and Jephson, at his request, moved to the holds. Each of the cages was laid on the floor, in accordance with Holmes’ instructions.

  Merry set down his four cages in a matter of a few minutes and was soon out of the ship, helmet off and breathing in cool, clean air.

  “That didn’t take as long as I thought, Dr. Watson.”

  “The others?”

  “You knew the plan, sir. Different areas for each.”

  Holmes began to lay his cages, but the longer he was on board, the more his desire to understand the underlying mystery increased. For him, a desire: for the man in the holds, an obsession.

  As Holmes laid down his third rat-cage he noticed a slight buckle of the inner hull and something … a need for answers … or questions that could lead to the right answers compelled him to remove a small sample of wood. He placed it into a small bag that was made of the same heavy-duty material as his suit.

  There was so much more he wanted to do, but this was not the time. Holmes moved further aft, set down his fourth cage and moved toward the midship exit. But as he passed one of the stairwells to the lower deck, he saw, for a brief moment, a light that burned as bright as a magnesium flare.