Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Jeff Campbell

  “Returned to his ancestral home.”

  “Exactly. This chance of the picture has supplied us with one of our most obvious missing links.”

  “Then the death of Sir Charles—”

  “Was fuelled in equal parts by the hope of material gain, and a reversion to family type. But we have him, Watson, we have him, and I daresay that before tomorrow night he will be fluttering in our net as helpless as one of his own butterflies.”

  I now come to the events of that last, terrible night; events which are seared into my memory, and which the passage of three decades has done nothing to erase. Holmes and I made our excuses on the following morning, saying that we were called back to London, when in fact we planned on being within a few miles of Baskerville Hall, along with Inspector Lestrade, called from London to assist us. “But we will say nothing of our theories to him, Watson, save what is in accordance with the accepted laws of Nature. He has come along a good deal since first we knew him, but I fear that our story would make even the best of professionals look at us askance, and be on the next train back to London.”

  Later that day we interviewed Laura Lyons and ascertained that it was a letter from her — written at Stapleton’s instigation — which had ensured that Sir Charles would be out of doors on the night of his death. It was obvious that while Mrs. Lyons did not know the truth about Stapleton, she suspected something to which she would not give voice, other than to say, in a low tone, “He frightened me into keeping silent.” When my friend asked if she had had her suspicions, she hesitated, and then said quietly, “I knew him.”

  “I think that on the whole you have had a fortunate escape,” said Holmes. “You have been walking for some months very near to the edge of a precipice.”

  The arrival of Lestrade, and the necessity for Holmes and I to talk of other things, brought a welcome measure of normalcy. Even so, my nerves thrilled with anticipation as we set out for Merripit House, our way taking us across the bleak and dismal moor. The moon rising above gave some light, but its terrible import made me want to shrink back in horror, and it was with a heavy heart that I watched the wagonette which had transported us fade away into the distance as it returned to Coombe Tracey. Then, with set shoulders and a mind filled with formless terrors, I turned and went with my companions towards the house of our enemy.

  All of the detail is there in my original story: the dreadful wait, our fears as the fog drew inexorably in, our worry that Sir Henry would leave it too late before starting across the moor. What I do not mention is the heavy weight of the knowledge which Holmes and I bore, the knowledge of what we were likely to encounter. I almost envied Lestrade his ignorance, although I at least had the advantage of knowing what to expect when, at last, our vigil was almost over. We were half-a-mile from Merripit House, and Sir Henry had just walked past where we three lay hidden, when Holmes drew his firearm from his pocket. “Hist!” I heard him cry, accompanied by the sound of his pistol cocking. “Look out! It’s coming!”

  The scene which followed is almost too hideous to recount. The description in my story as written is dreadful enough, but even that pales when compared with what we saw. Lestrade, poor man, gave a yell of terror and threw himself to the ground, and even I, who half-knew what to expect, was paralysed with fear. For it was not a hound which sprang from the bank of fog, not even a hound from the depths of nightmare, but a creature from Hell itself which emerged from the shadows of fog that surrounded us. In size it was larger than any dog which has ever lived, but it was not this alone which struck terror into us, nor was it the flaming glow which seemed to surround its head and neck, nor even the glimpse we had of a jaw set with fangs, which snapped at the very air around it. No; it was the faint vestiges of humanity we could trace in the creature’s lineaments, in the set of its shoulders, the way it turned its head, the eyes which yet held some trace of the naturalist of Merripit House, and a terrible awareness of what he had become, and lost in the becoming. The fur was coarse and matted, oddly patched, as though the creature had been hastily assembled without care, and its gait was an odd one, half-rolling, half-shambling, as of one unaccustomed to movement in such a form. Had it seen us and stopped then there is no telling what the effect might have been on our nerves, but it paid us no heed, and continued along the path of the unknowing baronet, snuffling at the ground as it passed in a manner that made the hairs on my neck stand upright.

  It was not until the creature was beyond us that Holmes and I regained the power of movement, and we fired together at the creature, the hideous howl it emitted telling us that one of our shots, at least, had hit home. Sir Henry turned at the sound of the gunshots and we could see the horror in his face as he confronted the creature which was on his track, hunting him down. Then, in an instant, both he and the beast were swallowed up by the fog, and we could hear his screams mingled with the hideous cries of the monster which pursued him.

  Lestrade had pulled himself to his feet, and with bulldog tenacity followed as Holmes and I raced down the track in pursuit, our pistols at the ready. The fog parted enough to show us the dreadful scene of Sir Henry being hurled to the ground by the creature, which leapt upon him and buried its muzzle in his throat, as if worrying savagely at its prey. Holmes emptied five shots into the beast, and I believe that some of my own shots hit home; Lestrade’s, too, although we did not tell him after that his bullets would have had as much effect as so many pebbles thrown at the thing. The creature gave a howl of agony; such a sound as I had never heard before, and pray God I shall never hear again, although sometimes a faint echo of it comes to me in nightmares, from which I wake in terror. It rolled upon its back, feet pawing furiously in the air, then fell limp upon its side. I was prepared to fire once more, but there was no need. The creature was dead.

  My immediate concern was Sir Henry, who lay insensible where he had fallen. We tore away his collar, and Holmes and I breathed a prayer of gratitude when we saw that there was no sign of a wound and that the rescue had been in time. When at last the baronet had been revived, he gazed up at us with horror-stricken eyes.

  “My God!” he whispered. “What was it? What, in Heaven’s name, was it?”

  “It’s dead, whatever it was,” said Holmes. “We’ve laid the family ghost to rest — once and for ever.”

  As he said these words the eyes of us all turned instinctively to where the creature lay, almost forgotten in our concern over Sir Henry. Lestrade gave a yelp of terror, and Sir Henry came near to fainting, while Holmes and I, even with our knowledge, drew back a step when we saw that the creature had vanished. In its place, his body showing the signs of several gunshot wounds, was Stapleton, the naturalist of Merripit House, his body rigid in the attitude of death, blank eyes staring heavenward at the uncaring moon.

  The events of the next few minutes passed in a blur. Sir Henry was still too dazed to take much note of what was occurring, while Lestrade seemed determined to push the matter from his mind for the time being. Contrary to what I wrote in my narrative, the detective accompanied Sir Henry back to Baskerville Hall, while Holmes and I retraced our steps to Merripit House, conscious that there was yet one thread left untied in this strange narrative. “Mrs. Stapleton,” Holmes had said to me, his voice urgent, as we helped Sir Henry. “We must make certain that she is safe. There is no telling what the creature has done this night.”

  When I recall the events of that night, it is of Mrs. Stapleton’s eyes which I often think: eyes full of grief and shame and a dreadful questioning. She seemed to know, in that quick way that women have, that we had divined her husband’s secret, for while not referring to it directly, she spoke as if all was understood between us. When we told her that her husband was dead, she gave a long sigh of satisfaction. “Thank God! Thank God!” she cried. “It is my mind and soul that he has tortured and defiled. I could endure it all, ill — usage, solitude, a life of deception, everything, as long as I could still cling to the hope that I had his love, but now I know that in this als
o I have been his dupe and his tool.”

  “You knew, madam?” asked Holmes sternly.

  “Yes, I knew, and was prepared to believe that he would harm no one. But the events at the school, and then the death of Sir Charles — I could not say anything, you understand? Who would have believed me? They would have said I was a madwoman. So I kept silent: partly through love, but mostly — mostly through fear. And that is over now. I am free.

  “Yes,” she replied, in answer to my friend’s question, “I sent the note to Sir Henry in London. Perhaps I should not have said what I did; I should have been more clear. But it was clear enough to me, and so I supposed it would be the same to others. I am sorry that it was not.”

  The rest of the story is briefly told. When we returned to Baskerville Hall, Holmes and I sat for some time with Sir Henry and Lestrade and told them our story, assisted by Dr. Mortimer, whom the Inspector had summoned to see to the baronet. The two men listened in silence, their countenances an all-too-plain guide to their thoughts; but as laid out before them the tale we told was well-nigh irrefutable, even without the evidence of their own eyes. It proved too much for Sir Henry, who by morning lay delirious in a high fever, while the Inspector was more shaken than I had ever seen him. “It’s a deep, dark business,” he said finally, echoing my own thoughts, “and if I hadn’t seen it myself then I’d not believe it, and that’s a fact. But I did see it, and by God, it’s not something I’ll soon forget, much as I wish I could.”

  Stapleton was indeed descended from the Baskervilles; the son of Rodger, the younger brother of Sir Charles, who had fled with a sinister reputation to South America. We were never able to ascertain when it was that Stapleton — as I still think of him — learned of his ancestry, but he was clearly aware of his heritage, for later research showed that a trail of savagery followed in his wake. Whether his move to Dartmoor was prompted by ancestral memory, or whether he had designs upon the Baskerville estate, we do not know; but his arrival upon the ground of his forebears seems to have intensified his blood-lust, as events have shown.

  Readers familiar with my original story will doubtless be wondering about the missing boots, which played so large a part in the tale as published. I recorded that Sir Henry lost one of his boots — a new one — while staying in London, only to have it returned, and an old boot taken in its place. This was, of course, a crucial link in the chain of deductions which Holmes made; but I admit now, for the first time, that it was an invention of my own. When the decision was made to publicise a version of events, Holmes and I thought long and hard about what might bolster it, and lend credence to the idea of a real hound. The boot — or something with its owner’s scent — was an obvious suggestion, and was easy enough to add to the narrative.

  The only other point about which readers might be wondering is the note which Sir Henry received in London. If you have read my published narrative, you will know that it consisted of a single line made up of words snipped from The Times; all except the final one, which was handwritten. It was difficult, at the time, to read that last word, which was sloppily written. We took it to be ‘moor’, which seemed to fit the facts as we knew them, and which is the version I published, although Dr. Mortimer told us later that he had had his doubts, about which he kept silent. But the note itself is, as I said at the start of this story, before me as I write, and when I look at it I see clearly what that last word is, and what Mrs. Stapleton was trying to tell us.

  “As you value your life or your reason keep away from the moon”.

  Mr. Other’s Children

  J. R. Campbell

  An evening chill seeped in the open window of my friend Sherlock Holmes’ lodgings. Tendrils of brisk December air, smeared with a jaundiced pea-souper, reached delicate, probing tendrils into the still atmosphere of the room. Sitting by the fire I studied the miasma with a fatigued fascination that was equal parts horror and apathy. The recent passing of my wife, which I shall not detail here, had sapped my spirit and drained my vitality. I watched the yellowed fog much as a shipwrecked sailor watches the ocean lapping against the desolate stones which chance marooned him on. A fate I dared not guess at awaited me out there. The respite I’d found among the familiar confines of 221B Baker Street could not last forever. Like the shipwrecked sailor my destiny waited out there. An inescapable fact I knew but lacked the courage to face. I knew that fog, knew better than most the terrible things hiding in its murk. Knew the greasy caress of it against my face, the wet cough of those it sickened, the cool, damp smell of coal which filled one’s nostrils and lingered on one’s coat. As I watched I fancied it was reaching for me, thwarted only by the fire’s expiring heat. Among the gathering shadows I waited, almost in a trance, dreading the fog’s cold touch but anxious for an end to the terrible waiting.

  By his chemistry bench Holmes’ lanky form unfolded itself from the bubbling experiment occupying his attention. Carefully setting his equipment aside, he reached for his hat and coat. Holmes turned to me. “It seems my presence is required. I do not know how long I shall be but you are — of course — welcome to stay.”

  “Where are you…” but I heard it then, the sound carrying from the open window, an approaching horse and carriage, being driven too quickly. “There is a chance they are not coming for you,” I remarked petulantly.

  A faint smile tugged the corners of Holmes’ lips. “A chance,” he admitted. “Though you will admit the odds favour my involvement.”

  Listening closely, I said “It doesn’t sound like a police carriage.”

  “Well done Watson,” Holmes’ remarked. “A hansom I should think. Had it been Scotland Yard I would not have retrieved my coat. As you know, the police are quite adept at bringing relevant evidence to my attention. No, the approaching hansom carries a client requiring my skills some distance from Baker Street. Best to meet them outside. It will save time.”

  “I’ll come with you.” My words surprised both Holmes and myself. Still, I dreaded the thought of spending the evening watching the fog creep ever closer. I stood, walked to the window and shut it firmly.

  “Very good Watson,” Holmes said as I retrieved my coat. We reached the bottom of the stairs as the hansom came to a somewhat dramatic stop before us. Within the cab was a handsome woman of middle years. Her face was streaked with tears and her wide, frightened eyes betrayed a frantic desperation. She began to fumble with the cab door. Holmes stepped across and calmly opened it for her.

  Breathlessly, the woman asked, “Are you—”

  “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Doctor Watson. I believe you were looking for us?”

  “Oh yes Mr. Holmes,” the woman said, bringing a linen to her eyes. “It’s my husband, I believe you know him. Inspector Bradstreet?”

  “Indeed,” Holmes remarked. “I know your husband well, as does Doctor Watson.”

  It was true. I did recall the detective. Tall and stout, Inspector Bradstreet cut an imposing figure to those on the wrong side of the law. I considered Bradstreet among the best Scotland Yard could offer. Always grateful for the consulting detective’s assistance, the Inspector watched Holmes’ demonstrations of deduction with the same amused fascination as a child watching a stage magician.

  “Mr. Holmes.” Mrs. Bradstreet spoke in an urgent whisper, her hand trembling violently. “I fear my husband means to end his life unless you can find him!”

  Holmes climbed into the cab. I followed, seating myself next to the distraught woman. Mrs. Bradstreet directed the cabbie to take her home with all possible haste.

  Holmes frowned. “I must tell you frankly, your husband does not seem the sort to harm himself.”

  “He told me he meant to,” Mrs. Bradstreet said, panic in her voice. “All through dinner he was unusually quiet but afterwards he told me quite plainly he was going to end his life. He said he was sorry but he needed to explain this to me because his body would never be found. He didn’t want me to cling to false hope. He said he’d always loved me
and hoped I would remarry, attach myself to a better man. I told him he was frightening me but he just walked out the door. I ran after him but he’d already disappeared. I didn’t know what to do, where to look for him, but my husband spoke of you often. He told me you were the best detective in London and I knew you were my only hope. Please Mr. Holmes, you must find him!”

  Holmes nodded. I could see the problem had already engaged the engine of his intellect. “What of Scotland Yard? Have you sought their assistance?”

  “No, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Bradstreet answered. “I dare not. If my husband does return he would never forgive me for speaking to his colleagues of such weakness.”

  “I see,” Holmes said. “Why do you suppose your husband presumed his body would never be found?”

  “My husband is a proud man,” Mrs. Bradstreet explained. “If he really means to do this, he will not wish Scotland Yard to know of it. Ever. He’s worked so hard to achieve his position, he’s so proud to serve as a detective. To lose face before his fellows would be, for him, worse than death.”

  “Do you know what caused your husband to speak of suicide?” Holmes inquired. “Was he behaving strangely recently? Had something upset him?”

  “No, nothing of the kind,” Mrs. Bradstreet insisted. “He was fine this morning. When he arrived home this evening he was quiet. There was, I could tell, something occupying his thoughts but he was often so. You’ll think me foolish for saying this but before today there has been nothing in his manner to suggest he was in any way troubled. Had he not spoken to me as he did I would not have suspected anything. He might have walked out the door and I would never have known what happened to him.”

  “We shall certainly do all we can,” I assured the weeping woman.

  “Did your husband take anything with him?” Holmes asked.

  “What do you mean?” Mrs. Bradstreet seemed confused by the question.