Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Jeff Campbell

  “Ah, one thing before you start,” Holmes remarked, “Dr. Watson and I have a small presentation. For the both of you.”

  This was news to me. I was as curious as the Challengers when Holmes drew a cigar box from his inner coat pocket.

  “Ah—!” Challenger’s eyes gleamed and, again, he laughed uproariously. “My only weakness! I’ve become even more addicted to the damned things since returning to London. I’d saved a single cigar while on the Plateau, wearing it in a pouch around my neck, resisting the temptation to put a match to it for over a year. It was a very sad day when I lost it in the river.”

  Jessica laughed heartily, as well.

  “A presentation for both of us? You’re suggesting, perhaps, that I take up the odious habit, Mr. Holmes?” she genuinely sparkled, ever so lovely in the glow of the street lamps.

  Holmes nodded to her with hooded eyes.

  “Open and see,” he calmly directed.

  She laughed again and opened the box, then became solemnly silent. Challenger also looked at the contents. He glanced up at Holmes, back to his daughter, then down again into the box. He was, finally, at a loss for words.

  “Lord Roxton delivered it to me. It had managed to conceal itself in his boot,” Sherlock Holmes explained. “Fascinating little creature — and extremely tenacious, I might add. As you’ll observe, somewhat miraculously, it has remained very much alive.”

  Jessica reached inside and extended her palm as the trilobite energetically scuttled across the fabric of her glove.

  The Grantchester Grimoire

  The Grantchester Grimoire

  by Chico Kidd & Rick Kennett

  Between the years of 1894 and 1901 Sherlock Holmes was an extremely busy man; although by 1902, however, the number of cases that stirred his interest had diminished, and he began to speak of retiring. In that same year my interests also lay largely elsewhere, as I had met the charming lady who would eventually fill the great void left by the death, some years previously, of my wife Mary. Naturally I was spending as much time as I could on the serious business of wooing and during that time, Holmes, I fear, found me a less than congenial comrade when I was thrown into his company instead. Nonetheless I still found myself unable to ignore his occasional appeals for assistance.

  Some weeks after my return from the Continent in search of Lady Frances Carfax, we were breakfasting together and listening to the sound of a late-summer downpour battering against the windows of our old Baker Street rooms. Earlier that month I had reached my half-century, and the rain was making my old war wound ache, to say nothing of the new scar on my leg, a souvenir of our recent adventure with the American ‘Killer’ Evans. Opposite me at the breakfast table, Holmes was reading a letter which had arrived in that morning’s first post. Whatever was in it made him cock an eyebrow. I looked at him inquisitively, and he handed me the single sheet of notepaper, on which I read the following:

  Grantchester, 26th August

  Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

  I hope that you will be able to help me on a matter that, to you, may initially appear trivial. My husband, Professor Henry Westen, who has spent many years cataloguing the chained library here at Grantchester Abbey, was working in the library last night and did not come home for his supper. I went to look for him and found him lying unconscious upon the floor. I could not wake him. He has still not woken and our physician says he can find no reason for it, but that my husband appears to be more like a man sleeping through nightmares than one in a coma. The police have washed their hands of the matter since they could find no sign of an intruder, yet I believe a book to be missing — one that had been hidden in a secret compartment in the library. I do not know what the book might be, but I believe that someone has stolen it all the same, and rendered my husband unconscious to do so. I am at my wits’ end and can only hope that you will consent to look into this matter.

  Yours sincerely,

  Eleanor Westen.

  While I was reading this missive, Holmes took to his feet and pulled the huge index volume that was his reference bible down from the shelf. Having cleared a space on the breakfast table by the simple expedient of pushing everything to one side with an almighty clatter, he set the book down on the table and began leafing through it.

  “Let us see what C has to contribute. Carbuncle, ha! Of the blue ilk, eh? Carfax, Lady Frances — quite a trip you made, Watson. Carnacki, Thomas. Curious name. Perhaps derived from Karnak in Egypt. I wonder why I made a note of him. ‘Ex-mariner, gifted amateur photographer’ … Bah! ‘Occult Detective’. What manner of creature can that be, other than genus Charlatan?” He turned pages noisily. “‘Chained Libraries in General: Usual practice to provide security for reference libraries from the Middle Ages to approximately the 18th century. Existing Chained Libraries by Location: Mappa Mundi at Hereford Cathedral. Wimborne Minster, Oriel College, Oxford. Guildford.’ Finally! ‘Grantchester Abbey: These books are chiefly of an occult and alchemical nature, some of them extremely rare.’ Not a great deal of help, though it might tempt a book collector.” He indicated the letter which had set off this flurry of activity. “So, Watson, what do you make of it?”

  I handed him back the letter. “It is all rather thin stuff, Holmes.”

  “Life itself is made of thin stuff; it is the weaving together that makes for interest.” My friend took up the letter again. “I believe a book to be missing,” he read. “A hidden book, Watson, a secret book stolen from a chained library. Does that not strike you as significant?”

  “Belief is not the same as fact,” said I. “You taught me that.”

  “Belief is a strange thing,” replied Holmes quietly. “My three years wandering the world after my encounter with Professor Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls taught me not to be as dogmatic on certain subjects as I once was.”

  “It still seems hardly worth your consideration. There may not have even been a crime committed.”

  Holmes shot me an amused look. “Well, Watson, since you are so sure this is not worthy of serious attention it might be as well that I go to Grantchester alone. I would not wish you to waste your time and I don’t doubt that Professor Westen’s nightmare state is quite beyond your medical experience.”

  This stung me, as of course it was meant to. I said, “Where you go, Holmes, so go I. Even if it be a fool’s errand.”

  “Splendid!” And he gave one of his rare laughs. “Hand me the Bradshaw, if you will.”

  Although the rain had mercifully eased, it was certainly chilly enough for us to don our ulsters for our trip to St. Pancras station. With a telegram dispatched via the boot-boy, we had ample time to hail a hansom; but the traffic in the Euston Road was, as usual, a disgrace — not helped by a brewer’s dray which had shed its load, adding the pungent odor of spilled beer to the usual city stinks. I wrinkled my nose.

  “Sometimes I completely sympathize with your desire to retire, Holmes,” I said.

  But his mind was elsewhere. “What do you suppose this curious sleep of Professor Westen’s might be?” he asked. “‘Like a man in a nightmare’ — and we may surmise it has lasted some two days or more. Even normal sleep goes through stages, Watson, does it not?”

  “Mesmerism?”

  “Hypnotism, I believe it is now more commonly termed. And yet he was alone within a locked room. Watson, there is more to this than a simple theft. I feel it! But here we are at St. Pancras.”

  I confess that the thrill of the chase had thus far passed me by, but Holmes was evidently in his element, so I devoted some thought to Professor Westen’s plight. Without examining the gentleman I could only make educated guesses, and as Holmes had often said, it was a capital mistake to theorize without data. Nonetheless, when we were seated in our carriage and fairly on our way I hazarded a guess.

  “Opium? Or some derivative thereof?”

  Holmes shook his head. “Not if the subject is still unconscious. And his physician would have detected it.”

  “Then some o
ther poison, one a provincial doctor might not have encountered?”

  “Poison seems likely, I agree. Yet my mind keeps circling back to the idea of hypnotism. Yes, Watson, I do believe we have an interesting case before us.”

  His sudden eagerness caught my own fancy and swept aside my original misgivings. “The game’s afoot, Holmes!” I said, with a genuine smile.

  “Indeed it is, Watson,” replied my friend. “Indeed it is.”

  Grantchester, in pleasant contrast to London, was bathed in brilliant sunshine. The station was deserted, although we were not the only passengers to alight. A young man in, I judged, his early thirties also disembarked, and strode purposefully towards the exit, giving us a polite nod as he passed. I touched my hat in response.

  “That gentleman was a merchant seaman until a few years ago,” remarked my companion in a conversational tone.

  “Indeed? What makes you draw that conclusion? He is a long way from any port of significance.”

  “His gait, mainly. The sailor never quite loses that nautical roll.”

  “He might’ve been a Navy man.”

  “No. That nod of the head was entirely too casual.”

  We emerged from the station into a pretty English country lane, just behind the ex-seaman. A pony and trap stood outside, and he was endeavouring to persuade the driver to accommodate him.

  I indicated the conveyance. “I fancy that he was sent to meet us.”

  “Hush,” Holmes whispered and placed a finger to his lips. “Let us hear what our sailor has to say.”

  “No, sir,” the driver was telling him. “I were sent to fetch those two gentleman to t’Abbey.”

  “But we are all going to the same place — oh, never mind.” He turned to face us. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen. As I too am going to Grantchester Abbey, would you be so kind as to let me accompany you?”

  “Do you know Professor Westen?” Holmes enquired.

  “I am … a friend of the family.”

  “Mr. Thomas Carnacki, if I am not mistaken,” said Holmes.

  “At your service, sir,” replied the other, his face taking on a bemused expression.

  I shot an astonished glance at Holmes.

  “Yes, a singular coincidence, Watson. Our ‘Occult Detective’ has an interest in this as well.” Then, ignoring the ex-mariner’s extended hand, he said stiffly, “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate Dr. Watson.”

  Carnacki’s face broke into a grin. “I don’t know which surprises me more — meeting the famous Mr. Holmes here of all places, or having a demonstration of your equally famous deductive powers. What gave me away, may I ask?”

  “Your history as a sailor and photographer are readily available to anyone who knows where to look,” Holmes replied. “You have had a tattoo of an anchor removed from the back of your hand, but a trace remains. Also you have a discoloration on your hand that is peculiar to the chemicals used in the photographer’s dark room. Finally, there is a certain esoteric value in this case which I am sure would attract a person in your dubious ‘profession.’”

  “Holmes!” I expostulated.

  “It’s quite all right, Dr. Watson,” said Carnacki. “When I took up this line of work I quickly learnt to tolerate sneers and suspicion.” He nodded to Holmes. “Might I be so forward as to ask why you are here?”

  “Probably for the very same reason that you are, to investigate the probable theft of an ancient manuscript.”

  “My God!” Carnacki exclaimed, then muttered something that sounded like, “Is that what he was trying to tell me?”

  “Mr. Carnacki,” said I, “just what does an ‘Occult Detective’ do?”

  Carnacki smiled, a little self-deprecatingly, seeming to recover himself. “Mostly I investigate hauntings — both hoaxes and those which might not be hoaxes. Recently I have been exposing fraudulent mediums. Was it Mrs. Westen who called you both in?”

  “It was. And yourself — are you here as a family friend or in your ‘official’ capacity?”

  “Probably a bit of both. It was during the course of investigating a séance that I learned of trouble at the Abbey. Professor Westen came to me in astral form. He was holding a particular scroll and appeared very distressed, so I knew I had to come.”

  “Interesting,” said Holmes silkily, though I had noticed his lips purse at Carnacki’s mention of astral travelling. “But we should not linger here talking while there is work to be done. We can all sit fairly comfortably in the trap, although I fear Watson here has grown a little stout of late.”

  I was a little hurt by this remark, but Holmes is often careless of people’s feelings and I did not take it to heart. I was more concerned for Carnacki and felt a pang of sympathy for him. Holmes could be intimidating, and he had obviously taken against the young man.

  We boarded accordingly; the driver flicked his whip, and off we lurched in the direction of Grantchester Abbey.

  A short while later we passed a picturesque ruined pile showing little evidence of the substantial edifice it must have been, save for the remains of a Gothic arch. Behind it, hedged by yews, stood a sturdy grey church with a solid-looking tower from which the sound of bells was pealing. Carnacki, who had been silent for the course of our journey, indicated the ruin with a wave of his hand.

  “Grantchester Abbey,” he said, somewhat superfluously. “And that,” he continued, pointing to the end house of a row of cottages, “is where Professor Westen lives.”

  “What on earth is going on?” I exclaimed, for an extraordinary commotion was centered upon this house. A middle-aged woman in housekeeper’s dress was apparently having a bout of hysterics in the middle of the front lawn, while a younger lady, presumably Mrs. Westen herself, was endeavouring to calm her down; around them a small terrier was tearing, barking furiously and pursued, with little success, by a red-faced maidservant.

  There was an element of farce about the scene; but I could not fault Carnacki’s reaction. He sprang to the ground, vaulting over the side of the trap, and sprinted towards the ladies, stooping to gather up the dog en route. I seized my medical bag and followed more sedately, having at least smelling-salts to offer.

  Carnacki was now hesitating, the squirming terrier in his hands. I turned to the maid, who was nearest. “You seem a sensible girl — what’s your name?”

  “Susan, sir.”

  “Take the dog, Susan,” I said. “That will help the most. And then I will see to Mrs.—?”

  “Mrs. Allison, sir,” she replied, holding out her hands for the terrier and tucking it under her arm with an air of long practice. Carnacki nodded distractedly in thanks.

  Mrs. Allison responded to the sal volatile and subsided into weeping, and I was eventually able to make out what she was saying.

  “It was like Frank — but … but…” She put her hands to either side of her eyes and howled anew.

  “Frank was her husband,” said Mrs. Westen who was looking almost as agitated as the housekeeper. I looked up and saw her properly for the first time: she had a heart-shaped face with a determined set to her jaw, and dancing dark eyes that would be very attractive when not red from her own grief. “It … it stood at the window. It stood at the window and stared in at us with big empty eyes,” she said in an oddly strained voice. Then, seeming to collect herself, she went on more calmly, “You must be Dr. Watson.”

  I straightened and held out my hand to her. Susan, having stowed the dog somewhere, helped Mrs. Allison to her feet. “At your service, Mrs. Westen.” I turned as my friend hurried up to our little group. “And here is Sherlock Holmes,” I said.

  “Was her husband?” Holmes asked.

  “Yes,” replied Mrs. Westen. “He died two years ago. Good Lord, Mr. Holmes, he died two years ago and yet something that looked very much like him stood at the kitchen window not a minute before.”

  By the expression on my friend’s face I could see he was already dismissing all this as female hysteria. But Carnacki was wide-eyed with int
erest and looked first to the two women, then at the window and back again.

  “Has this ever happened before?” he asked Mrs. Weston.

  “No!” she said and shook her head vigorously. “No, never!”

  “Sudden ghosts,” he muttered.

  The housekeeper showed no sign of becoming more coherent, and was in such evident distress that I judged it best to administer a sedative before yielding Mrs. Allison’s care to Susan.

  “Pray tell us what happened, Mrs. Westen?” Holmes asked with ill-concealed impatience.

  “Yes, of course,” the lady replied. “I was discussing menus with Mrs. Allison in the kitchen when someone rapped on the window. We looked up and both of us saw … something that was the image of Frank Allison but with great, deep, dark hollows where his eyes should have been. When I went outside there wasn’t a soul to be seen.”

  “I meant with your husband, Mrs. Westen,” said Holmes.

  I saw Carnacki hide a smile. “Mrs. Westen,” he said, “with your permission, I think my time would be put to better use if I could now see the library.”

  She nodded, and ran a hand over her hair. “Yes, of course. Ask Susan if you need anything. She is still rather new here, but a bright girl.”

  Our Occult Detective took his leave.

  “What is Mr. Carnacki’s interest in this matter?” asked Holmes.

  “Oh, he helped my husband with the library a few years ago. I’m not entirely sure what he did, but I’m convinced it had something to do with the missing book.”

  “Ah yes, the putative missing book.” Holmes smiled. “I am still not entirely clear as to why you think a volume is missing.”

  She shot him a sharp look. “I deduced it, Mr. Holmes. Henry was lying unconscious in a locked room. A secret compartment whose existence I previously knew nothing of stood open and empty. Something must have been in it, and the room is a library after all. What else was I to think?”

  Holmes is often not at his best when confronted by the more intelligent members of the fair sex — and for just a moment his expression resembled that of a man who had unexpectedly bitten into a hot pickle, though he quickly recovered himself.