Yet, regaining some purpose, I stood and trailed after the dead Professor. Outside I saw the door of a dark carriage close. With a flick of the reins the horse moved off. Unless the Professor, naked and breathless, had called for a cab it seemed there were those willing to submit to his will even after his death. I searched the ground but there was no sign of the knife I had used.
Above me I heard the flutter of feathers and shuddered deeply, but I saw nothing in the darkness. The carriage was gone too quickly to follow, even had I been able to summon a cab at this ungodly hour.
Baffled and wearier than I had ever been, I stumbled home and fell into my bed. Sleep eluded me but the inactivity was a balm to my bruised thoughts. Sometime the next day — or was it the day following? —I dressed and returned to Headquarters.
People spoke to me but nothing they said could penetrate the bubble surrounding me. While I’ve no doubt I responded correctly, my mind had not yet fully returned. The first news I remember hearing was that Jenkins’ body had been found. He had run and run until, finding himself at a set of railway tracks, he had decided to charge an oncoming locomotive. It had ended his life quickly, although not pleasantly. Within the privacy of my thoughts I saluted the old soldier, well aware his sanity had died before the train had found him.
Slowly my awareness started to return and I realized those around me were puzzled by the disappearance of Moriarty’s corpse. Theories were bantered back and forth over the purpose his confederates might have for so grisly a trophy. Shaking my head I listened, but did not speak. My thoughts were not fit for sharing. I remember wanting to send a telegram to Holmes but no one knew where he was. The great detective had vanished, taking with him the only man who might have had an inkling as to his whereabouts. I was helpless, but not conscious of the danger. Moriarty was dead. I believed this limited the damage he might inflict. How wrong I was.
Watson’s telegram arrived, delivering unwelcome news like cannon fire. None could believe the words or doubt the speaker. Holmes dead. Killed by the Professor. All our good work undone. Watson was returning to London. He demanded answers but we had none to give. In the absence of understanding there grew rumors, speculation and gossip.
Their conclusions are solid, their reasoning sound. Obviously the Professor had followed Holmes to the continent. He had not been killed here in London. Someone must have made an error, somehow the old spider cheated death by pulling the wool over someone’s eyes.
My eyes.
My error.
My guilt.
Oh yes, and my madness. Should I speak to them? Explain it all? Make them understand that death is not the end we think it? That the flesh of men can be corrupted? Shall I speak of the raven I hear following me or of the sights which drove Jenkins to his suicide? In my mind’s eye I can see Moriarty walking up that faraway path, slight and grey as the grave, his wounds concealed beneath an expensive shirt and high collar. I can see his dull eyes fixing on Holmes and I wonder if Holmes — ever the genius, ever the detective — understood what it was he faced on that precipice. I like to think he did. That the signs of Moriarty’s death would be immediately visible to Holmes, the master of noting such minutiae as is held in trouser cuffs and ashes. It offers me comfort to believe — no matter what the others think — that Holmes himself, in his final moments, knew me to be blameless in his death.
The night following the telegram’s arrival at Scotland Yard I heard the bird at my window. I was not myself, having surrendered to the grief, shame and terror of my situation. Even so I heard its arrival, felt the power of its gaze. Later she came to me. Silently settling her form beside mine, allowing herself to feel the heat of my body. I knew what she wanted but I demurred and she, for her part, allowed me my resistance.
Then Watson returned to London. We spoke and we parted. That night I found I had no resistance to offer.
Not then, not now.
I feel her presence in the room and I wish for … I know not what. If there is a way out of this prison I cannot see it. What wouldn’t I give to have things the way they were before I’d ever heard the Professor’s name? What wouldn’t I give to enjoy the friendship of such men as Watson and Holmes once more? Yet, if I am to be saved, better men than I will need to accomplish it.
She is here again. I feel her slide beneath the blanket once more. I shiver as she presses herself against me. My prayers spin unheeded into the cold night sky and all the while the bird watches me with those cursed eyes.
Exalted are the Forces of Darkness
Leigh Blackmore
Amongst the most curious adventures befalling my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes was that of Asmoday and the Black Sutra. Holmes several times crossed paths with that peculiar genius, the occultist Aleister Crowley. I lay this record of the adventure before the public somewhat reluctantly, for though Holmes tolerates my recording of our curious experiences together, he is ever averse to publicity. Furthermore, a strong element of supernaturalism in the case challenged Holmes’ oft-repeated dictum: ‘no ghosts need apply’. Nevertheless, my case notebooks indicate that this adventure has many unusually intriguing features.
Having returned to Baker Street the previous year, I had since been plunged into numerous cases with Holmes. The mid-1890s were busy years for us, with many demanding cases engaging Holmes’ deductive powers. Despite this, the swirling yellow fog which pervaded the city this year kept us in our rooms at 221B for weeks on end without the rigors of a fresh case to ease our confinement.
During such intervals of inaction, Holmes occupied himself with the music of the Middle Ages, the newly published novel by Mr. Wells, The Time Machine, or the distraction of scraping at his Stradivarius. But every morning this November he paced our sitting-room restlessly in a mouse-coloured dressing gown, constantly glaring out the window into the oily fog, or rapping on the furniture with frustration.
“Can I not tempt you to read the paper, Holmes?” I enquired.
“Pah!” he scoffed. “Watson, there is no crime of interest.” His mood was both sombre and cynical. Taking some shag from the Persian slipper, he stuffed it into his clay pipe and lit it. “Roentgen’s rays are the only worthy scientific discovery of late. I fear there is nothing anywhere to occupy my brain.”
Just then, Mrs. Hudson entered.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Holmes. An Inspector Gregson seeks admittance on a matter of the utmost urgency.”
Holmes snapped to attention. “Gregson? Capital! Well why are you standing there gawping, Mrs. Hudson? Send him up!”
She retreated. In a few moments I welcomed Inspector Tobias Gregson across our threshold.
Holmes smiled warmly, without rising from his customary armchair near the fireplace. “Pray be seated, Gregson” said he, gesturing with his pipe. “You know my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” Gregson removed his hat and took up the seat opposite.
“You’ll forgive me, Mr. Holmes, if I am direct,” he said.
“Of course,” said Holmes, eyes narrowing with interest.
“There have been some confounding incidents around the Chancery in the last twenty-four hours. We have found the savagely mutilated body of a young girl. It is most bizarre, Mr. Holmes — perhaps the most violent death we have witnessed this season. Scotland Yard immediately considered it a case requiring your assistance.”
Holmes sat forward in his chair, his pipe clutched between his slender fingers. “Ah — the details, Inspector?”
“Well, Mr. Holmes, the case was reported by a constable on his usual rounds in the heart of the city. As he turned into one particular alleyway, he glimpsed a dark shape that seemed to be huddled up against a wall. He approached cautiously; a tumbled mass of masonry lay piled there in confusion. From beneath the bricks protruded a human arm and hand. The light of his lantern caught a dark, bloody trickle running along the arm.
“Our man immediately blew his whistle and before long other policemen joined him, and managed
to clear away some of the detritus from around the corpse. The body was that of a young girl dressed in fine clothing. She wore high-buttoned black shoes, had on a striped jacket, and at her neck was a cameo necklace. Still on her wrist and hand were a silver bracelet and a filigreed silver ring. Evidently she had not been killed for profit; else the murderer would have taken the jewellery.”
“Quite so,” put in Holmes.
“What were the nature of her wounds?” I enquired.
“The body was horribly mutilated,” Gregson continued. “The throat had been torn out, and the visible flesh charred almost beyond recognition. Other portions of flesh had been removed. It was grisly beyond description. The features were hideously distorted.”
“What else, Inspector?” asked Holmes, eyes alight with concentration.
Gregson looked at his boots, then up again. “The whole body was — well — crushed. At first we believed it a simple accident — that the body had been crushed by the bricks.”
“But you have abandoned that theory?” asked Holmes.
“Yes. The wounds upon the body were not consistent with being knocked down by falling masonry.”
“The force used to crush the girl’s bones must have been terrific,” I admitted. “And the bricks do not account for the tearing and charring of the flesh, Inspector.”
“Fascinating,” said Holmes. “The question is how and why this girl was killed. What do we know of her circumstances?”
“Well sir, we have identified her mother.” Gregson took from his coat pocket a cameo brooch, framed in seed pearls. He handed it to Holmes, who examined it minutely before handing it on to me. It contained a hand-tinted photo: a woman of stately bearing, posing in a high-collared corseted dress with distinctive brocade at the sleeves, and her hair swept up. The name ‘Lady Althea Adams’ appeared in curlicue script beneath the image.
“Althea Adams” said Holmes. “Is she known to you?”
“She is, Mr. Holmes,” said Gregson. “Her Ladyship was married to the Marquis of Trowbridge. Both of them died tragically in a fire which destroyed their ancestral home some years ago. As the victim is the child of such highly placed persons, this situation is potentially scandalous. If knowledge of this leaks out, Her Majesty’s government may be severely embarrassed. That’s why we’ve come to you, Mr. Holmes.”
“I understand. Anything else?”
“We know the dead girl was their daughter, Lillian. She was but twenty years old, Mr. Holmes.” Gregson seemed distressed.
“Is the body still in situ, Inspector”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes. We have cordoned off the area as we felt it best the scene be preserved for your examination.”
Holmes smiled. “Capital, Inspector, you have done well. So often the crime scene is tampered with before I can examine it. We should proceed there at once.” He gestured to me. “A case not entirely devoid of interest, Watson! Be so good, dear fellow, as to hail a cab. We must make haste.”
An hour later we stood in the alleyway where the girl’s body lay. A ring of blue-uniformed constables stood guard to prevent anyone from disturbing the site.
The girl’s body, withdrawn from the debris, lay under a canvas to one side. Holmes approached the disordered bricks piled against one alley wall. “Observe, Watson. These bricks are not broken or crumbled at their edges.”
“Quite so, Holmes” I said, not entirely taking his point.
“All in good time, Watson,” said he.
Holmes brought forth his magnifying lens, and made a great show of going over the ground with it. Gregson and I could only watch and wonder. When Holmes drew himself up, he looked pale.
“Excuse me for a few moments.” He crossed to a dark doorway, entered, and disappeared from view. Moments later, he emerged upon the roof above us. After several minutes of close examination there, he returned to join us.
Holmes addressed Gregson. “Observe, Inspector,” he said. “There is no logical place from which those bricks can have fallen — for instance, no building site located above, and no gap in the masonry that would indicate an accident. The bricks must have been piled in the alley before the girl was killed.”
Holmes walked to where the body lay, and pulled back the canvas. The state of the girl’s body was truly grotesque. Wherever flesh was visible, it had been charred, almost roasted. And the bones! I bent down to examine her arm, and noted the way the bones had been completely crushed within the limb.
“By Jove, Holmes,” I said, “this is unprecedented! What force could possibly have had such an extreme effect on a young girl’s tender body? This is some savage killer whose frenzy is beyond the pale! Or could it be some creature that has torn the poor thing apart?”
“Let us assemble all the facts before we speculate, Watson,” declared Holmes. His eyes began to assume a slightly vacant look which meant, I knew, he was cogitating. I continued my examination.
“What do you estimate as her time of death, Watson?” he asked suddenly.
“The state of the body makes that rather difficult to determine, but I would say just over eighteen hours, Holmes.” I stood up.
Holmes addressed us both. “What the police have failed to deduce is that the murderer piled up the bricks merely to conceal the body. But the killer must have been in some haste, for the arm was left protruding.”
“That brings us no closer to solving the mystery, Holmes,” I ventured.
“Quite right, Watson.” He turned to Gregson. “You may have the body removed now, Inspector. Pray keep us informed about your investigations. Any further information about the girl’s family that you may unearth would be helpful. The girl is twenty, you said? I suggest you investigate when she was due to inherit her parents’ fortune. And if you can, try and find out where and how she lived after her parents died.”
Gregson took all this in. “Very good, Mr. Holmes.”
One evening, not a week later, Inspector Gregson again called at 221B.
“Developments, Inspector?” asked Holmes. “Please — feel free to join us for tea.”
“Thank you Mr. Holmes, a cup would be most welcome. Well — we know a little more. Lillian Adams was cared for by a group of legally appointed guardians. Her parents made such arrangements in case of their accidental death.”
“Lillian Adams was allocated a monthly allowance on which she lived. She was housed in various places with these guardians, who all had one thing in common.” A satisfied note crept into his voice. “They all belong to a society called” —here Gregson drew a notepad from his breast pocket and read stiltedly— “the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.”
Holmes sat bolt upright. “The Golden Dawn? I’m aware of that group — artists and writers who use ‘magic’ to explore various altered states of consciousness, not unlike the Theosophists.”
“Correct, Mr. Holmes. We have now interviewed various members of the Order. Amongst them was a certain Mr. Sidney Paget. I believe he has illustrated some of your adventures published in The Strand magazine?”
I could not help but raise my eyebrows. “Indeed, but Paget’s a good fellow. I wasn’t aware he was mixed up with any occult nonsense.”
“Apparently so,” said Gregson. “The members generally meet in each other’s houses, although there are designated ‘temples’ around London where they conduct their formal rituals.”
“Why, I wonder, would the girl’s parents consent to legal guardians who were members of this — occult society?” I looked to Holmes. “Surely this is highly irregular?”
“Yes, Watson, I fear you are on the right track,” remarked Holmes. The Inspector sighed. Holmes stood up and began to prowl the room. “I take it Paget could provide no leads?” he enquired.
“No, Mr. Holmes. He seemed to be entirely unaware of the crime. Mind you, we have not eliminated him, or any of the Golden Dawn members, from our enquiries as yet. However, our enquiries did lead us more in the direction of one Mr. Aleister Crowley.”
Holmes stopped in his t
racks. “Indeed? Young Crowley already has a sinister history.”
“I’ll keep you informed, Mr. Holmes. At present that is all we know.” Gregson made ready to leave.
Holmes extended his hand. “Thank you, Gregson. Do keep in touch.”
Two weeks passed with no further developments, until one night we received a telegram from Gregson.
“Another killing, Watson!” Holmes handed me the telegram. It read:
‘ANOTHER VICTIM. ALSO GD MEMBER. DANIEL TODHUNTER — ONE OF LILLIAN’S GUARDIANS. TORN LIMB FROM LIMB. COME AT ONCE. 13 GOWER ST. SIGNED: GREGSON.’
I stared at Holmes. “This is terrible! Do you think it connected with the girl’s death?”
“The Golden Dawn are mixed up in this somehow, Watson. While their usual occult pursuits may be harmless enough, I suspect one of their number is up to no good. All the girl’s guardians belong to this same society — of which we now have a dead member. Make haste — and Watson, there may be some little danger. It would be advisable to bring along your service revolver.”
We took a carriage and at 13 Gower Street we were admitted by one of Gregson’s men. Gregson approached us in the lobby of the well-to-do house. A few household servants stood uncertainly in the background.
Holmes came straight to the point. “Daniel Todhunter is dead. Where is he?”
“Upstairs, Mr. Holmes. Prepare yourselves. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
He led the way up a steep, winding staircase and opened the door to a bedroom off the main landing. The white-painted room, with common potted palms, large bed and furniture, was in total disorder. Objects flung from sidetables lay about the floor, and several large paintings on the walls were torn or scratched in a very disturbing manner. We saw immediately that all four white walls were extensively spattered with blood. The room reeked of burnt flesh.
Gregson gestured gravely with his fist towards the bed. Amongst the rumpled bedclothes, lay Daniel Todhunter’s body. He had been a tall man, well-clothed with a fine waistcoat and fashionable breeches. The corpse was gruesome in the extreme. The head lay gaping back upon the pillow, almost falling away from the neck, which had been gashed so deeply one could see the white of bone.
Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes Page 19
