Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Jeff Campbell

  The stout door opened fractionally, barely enough to reveal the concerned eye of the occupant. Holmes paused long enough to determine there would be no further introduction unless he initiated it. “My companion and I were hoping to speak to you regarding the unfortunate Mr. Wolfe.”

  Curiously, Mr. Willingham’s response to this was to thrust his hand out into the hallway so that Holmes might shake it. The heavy door opened no further. The distrust gleaming in the watching eye did not lessen. Nor did Mr. Willingham offer a single word in way of greeting.

  “Of course,” Holmes said, as if the out-thrust hand explained everything. Holmes took the offered hand and shook it briskly and deliberately.

  “Thank God,” Willingham welcomed us with a desperate sincerity as he withdrew his hand. Holmes cast a self-satisfied look my way. Bringing a finger to his lips, he warned me to silence. While I did not understand the need for my quiet, I knew Holmes well enough to trust he would explain his odd request when the opportunity presented itself. I nodded as Willingham pulled open the heavy door and hurried us inside.

  Our host, Willingham, was a tall man of imposing stature. Haunted eyes in a weather-beaten face looked worriedly up and down the hallway. His wide, dashing moustache and the tuft of beard on his chin put me in mind of an adventurer, like a knight from the tales of chivalry beloved by schoolboys across the Empire. Closer inspection revealed a nervousness, an unshakable fright, such as I had witnessed during my military service. Willingham seemed to me a once dashing figure who was now haunted by his intimacy with the battlefield.

  As we stepped into the small apartment I was surprised to see a long sword leaning against the wall beside the doorframe. Should our meeting evolve into something less than cordial the weapon was within easy reach.

  Our host held out his trembling hand to me but as I reached for it Holmes interrupted. “The Doctor is with me,” Holmes said. I did not understand what he meant by the comment but Willingham nodded. Pulling back his hand, he crossed the room to an open liquor cabinet.

  “Can I offer you gentlemen something to drink?” Willingham said as he reached for a bottle. An empty tumbler waited on a table. Pouring himself a measure of amber liquid, Willingham looked over the table and out a large window.

  “Thank you but no,” Holmes said.

  Drink in hand, Willingham turned to face us. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to see you. When Wolfe was murdered I thought myself quite alone. All the members of my detachment are either dead or out of the country.”

  Holmes shifted in his seat. Looking regretfully to Willingham, he spoke. “We have heard reports suggesting Pursey and Mulchinock have been killed as well.”

  The color drained from Willingham’s lined face. The tumbler in his hand fell to the floor, forgotten. Fearing the poor man might faint I hurried to his side and guided him into a nearby seat.

  “We have not been able to confirm these reports,” Holmes hastened to add. “Obviously, we hope the information is false and both men are well.”

  “Of course,” Willingham said. He raised his hand but discovered his drink gone. Holmes rose and poured the poor devil another. The taste of it seemed to restore the forsaken figure somewhat. “It appears I am the last of the detachment. It will come for me next.”

  “Most likely,” Holmes agreed reluctantly.

  “So the Brotherhood sent you to check on me.” Willingham made no effort to conceal his bitterness. “To see if I’d break before the end? I’ve no assurances to offer gentlemen. You may inform them that I know what duty requires of me. My hope is that I will go down fighting, in keeping with the Brotherhood’s glorious history, but I’ll not pretend to be grateful for the opportunity.”

  Glancing at the sword leaning by the door, Holmes spoke speculatively. “Perhaps the Doctor and I might—”

  “Would you?” An expression of gratitude softened Willingham’s face, making him seem younger. As quickly as it appeared, the expression was gone. Willingham’s voice was firm.

  “No. God bless you for offering but that’s exactly what they want. I’ve no idea how they’ve breached the gate but obviously they’re seeking out as many of the Brotherhood as they can. They can’t beat us there, our fortifications are too strong, but here — at home — we’re all vulnerable. No, my detachment may be lost but I’ve no wish to bring down another. Much as I appreciate your offer I cannot accept. You gentlemen will have to leave.”

  Holmes frowned. “Is there anything you wish us to report to the Brotherhood?”

  Willingham emptied his drink, rolling the spirits over his tongue.

  “A deathbed statement? Very well. Tell the Brotherhood my detachment served with an honor which exceeded our situation. I know how desperately the Elders seek the forbidden knowledge of the Melvaris. Tell the brotherhood such partnerships are not meant for men. My situation is hopeless. I cannot defeat the abomination which comes for me. Even so, I would rather die a man than know victory as such a monster. Tell the Brotherhood to remember us as we were: Men who stood together beneath the red sun. We earned our conquest, fighting as comrades. Do not let the Elders corrupt that victory. Remember the courage of men. Do not let them turn brave men into a blasphemy of foreign sorcery. Alone I cannot match a creature of the Melvaris, but if we stand together, as men, none can defeat us.” Willingham looked out the large window at the lights of London. “How strange to have travelled so far only to learn we had no need of the magic we sought.”

  Visibly composing himself, Willingham tore his gaze away from the window. Looking at Holmes and I, the man set down his glass. “You should leave now.”

  Holmes opened his mouth to protest but Willingham strode to the door and took the long sword into his hand. Despite the alcohol he’d consumed the man still appeared quite formidable. “Thank you for coming but you must go if you are to carry my message to the Brotherhood. Farewell.”

  There was simply no way we could remain. In short order Holmes and I found ourselves in the hallway, the sturdy door closed behind us.

  I started for the stairs. Holmes’ hand fell on my shoulder, stopping me. With a nod of his head, Holmes indicated we should proceed in the opposite direction. I followed as Holmes walked to the flat next to Willingham’s. He tapped lightly on the door and, receiving no answer, pulled a familiar, but illegal, set of tools from his pocket.

  “Holmes!” I protested as my friend made short work of the door’s lock.

  “The apartment is vacant,” Holmes explained as he stepped into the dark room beyond. “You did not notice the ‘Room to Let’ sign downstairs? Come, it serves our purpose to remain close to Mr. Willingham. If he is attacked, as he obviously expects to be, it would be best if we remain near enough to render assistance.”

  As Holmes predicted, the flat was empty of occupants and furniture. Striding across the empty room Holmes walked up to the tall window, opened it and leaned out. Satisfied with what he saw he pulled himself back in. “Nothing unusual on the street or dangling from Mr. Willingham’s window. This flat is empty, leaving the hallway as the only avenue of attack. Unless this killer flits about on angel’s wings.”

  Miss Drayson, I recalled, had insisted her wings were nothing like those of an angel. Refusing to be baited, I asked, “What was all that business in Willingham’s? Who did he think we were?”

  “Oh yes,” Holmes replied, amused. Opening the door to the hallway fractionally the detective placed a small mirror against the doorframe so he could watch the comings and goings in the hallway unobserved. Seating himself on the floor, settling himself for a long wait, Holmes explained. “You noticed how Willingham refused to speak until I had shaken hands with him?”

  “Yes.” I recalled the incident.

  “Apparently Mr. Willingham belongs to some manner of secret society,” Holmes explained. “A club fond of secret handshakes and the like. Having made a study of such things I decided to risk passing myself off as a member, thinking he would be more willing to discuss his situation
with a fellow.”

  “It worked,” I said.

  “Too well I’m afraid,” Holmes confessed. “Having bluffed my way in, I couldn’t very well admit to having no idea what the man was talking about. Melvaris? The term is not one I am familiar with, although I suppose it may be the name of some rival society.”

  “He spoke of their secrets,” I remembered.

  “Yes,” Holmes replied dismissively. “What use is a secret society without secrets? No doubt they have a closet full of all manner of mystical refuse. It makes no difference. Whatever nonsense Willingham said our interview has confirmed two important points. Firstly, there is a definite, if secret, connection between the murdered men. Secondly, Willingham himself believes he will be attacked tonight. All we need do is wait for his attackers. Once we have taken them into custody I am confident they shall lead us to the answers we seek.”

  “If we can take them into custody,” I amended Holmes’ statement. Holmes, ever confident, merely shrugged.

  We settled in for a long night’s watch. Holmes sat by the door, his eyes never wavering from the mirror and its reflection of the hallway. I sat with my back against the wall shared with Willingham’s flat, occasionally pressing my ear against the barrier and listening. Willingham seemed to be spending his time pacing back and forth. The hours stretched on and we endured them silently.

  Checking my watch, I noticed it was just after three o’clock. Pressing my ear against the wall again, I checked on Willingham once more. My hope was the man had ceased his pacing and retired for the night. Certainly by that point I was wishing the same for myself. Rather than the even tread of a man’s stride however, I heard the unmistakable sound of a deflected sword thrust. Hurried footsteps jostled for position. The battle had begun.

  “Holmes!” I leapt to my feet, weariness forgotten.

  “There’s been no one,” Holmes insisted, pressing his ear against the wall. Hearing the sounds of combat from the other side Holmes uttered a curse and hurried to the window.

  I looked to the door and Holmes, seeing my confusion, called for me. “Willingham’s door is too thick to breach,” Holmes said. “Expecting an attack, he’ll have locked it securely. No, the window is our only way. Check your revolver Watson.”

  Holmes disappeared out the window. I checked my service revolver, it was loaded and ready, and placed it back in my jacket pocket. Reluctantly I followed Holmes out the window. A small, wrought iron balustrade surrounded the small balcony. Climbing over it, Holmes leapt from our window to the next. The space between was not great but the distance to the street below was daunting. Climbing into the brisk, night air I caught a glimpse of Holmes frowning as he kicked in the glass of Willingham’s unbroken window.

  Summoning my courage, I leapt into the air in pursuit of my friend. Climbing over the metal railing, I was startled by the sound of a loud collision. Heart in my throat I saw Holmes thrown against the windowsill. His head connected loudly against the ledge. Pulling my pistol, I hurried through the broken window.

  Holmes lay crumpled on the floor, unconscious. Blood flowed from a wound to his head. Across the room stood Willingham, his clothing dishevelled, bleeding from several wounds. All of this I noticed in a glance for my attention was drawn to the unearthly creature hovering above the overturned furniture in the room’s centre.

  She’d spoken truly. Her wings bore no resemblance to those of an angel. They were great, curved muscles. Bones sharp as blades over taut, grey skin. Her legs merged together like a serpent’s tail. Along her flanks rows of articulated bones emerged like knives. Despite these and other changes, I knew the face which turned to me. I had looked into the depths of those brown eyes before.

  Her new form must, I know, seem hideous as I describe it. Indeed, it was hideous. And yet — there was a grace, a beauty, to the creature. The potential for loveliness I had glimpsed earlier was fulfilled in ways both unexpected and chilling. The Catherine Drayson I’d seen was present but her youthful anatomy had been melded with that of a monstrosity. The flesh of her savage half, for that was how she’d termed it, shared an appalling intimacy with the woman I had met earlier. Her faintly green skin seemed, in places, to roughen into blue-edged scales. Dagger-like teeth crowded her newly grown snout, making it impossible for her to smile. Still the curve of her back, the swell of her breasts, those dark brown eyes, all remained deliriously female. For a moment I simply stared, terrified and captivated, at the apparition before me.

  She raised her hands and reached towards me. I saw her fingers had become daggers. Seeing that, I understood Scotland Yard’s confusion over the murdered men’s cuts. First her hands would pierce my flesh then she would spread her fingers. The resulting wound would seem like a puncture left by an unusually wide sword. Yet, even knowing this, I made no move to defend myself. Catherine Drayson and her savage half stepped towards me. Eagerness shone in her eyes. I waited.

  Behind her Willingham swung his sword. The blade was deftly turned aside by the bony edge of one slender wing. Her expression angered. In a quick, powerful twist she turned to face Willingham. She thrust a closed hand at the dishevelled man. He parried the lunge and stumbled backwards. Looking down I saw the revolver still in my hand. Raising the gun, I took aim at the back of the creature’s head and squeezed off a round.

  Somehow sensing the attack, a wing twitched and deflected the bullet. Disbelieving, I fired two more rounds but each time the edge of the creature’s wing deflected the bullet before it could reach its target. Behind me Holmes lay on the floor, bleeding. Unwilling to leave him undefended yet powerless against the strange hybrid I looked about frantically for something, anything, that might serve as a weapon.

  Returning the revolver to my jacket pocket, I took hold of the empty bottle Willingham had been drinking from earlier. Breaking the glass against the table allowed me to fashion a crude knife. I watched in sick fascination as the creature battled the swordsman. Despite Willingham’s obvious skill, it seemed to me the creature was toying with him. Blocking his escape. Allowing him to strike only where the creature could easily deflect the thrust. Willingham knew it too. Looking over the creature’s shoulder he cast me a desperate look.

  Unfurling its wings, the creature blocked my view of Willingham. Between the outstretched wings I saw a long, black ridge. Vividly I recalled Miss Drayson describing her savage half. I also remembered her speaking of her rider. Seeing that long, black, snake-like ridge between her shoulders, I was struck with the notion this was the rider she’d spoken of. I did not hesitate. Lunging forward, I plunged the broken glass bottle into the black ridge.

  Battered by the surprisingly strong wings I wasn’t certain I had found my mark. With a hideous scream, the creature lunged forward and thrust its hands into Willingham. Blood splattered on the floor as those terrible fingers spread within the man. Willingham, his face twisted in agony, threw himself forward. The unexpected action slowed the creature. Rather than pull its hands free, the hybrid lifted Willingham off the ground and drank deeply of the man’s flowing blood.

  Finding myself on the floor, I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my revolver. Black ichor oozed from the wound on the creature’s back but the ridge, revealed now as a dangling snake, still held fast to the creature. I fired at it. The wings moved but not quickly enough. The bullets found their mark. The hybrid creature shuddered and screamed. With a savage gesture it pulled its hands free of Willingham, tearing the man in half as it did so. Turning to me, it staggered. The snake fell from its perch. The hybrid creature’s wings flapped in a vain, uncoordinated effort to keep itself aloft. It fell to the floor.

  I stood. Finding my revolver’s ammunition spent, I reloaded. Standing over the twisting, struggling snake I emptied my revolver into it. At last it stopped moving. Was this the Melvaris Willingham had spoken of? I turned to the fallen winged creature Catherine Drayson had become and wondered: Was this the secret magic the Brotherhood sought? The ability to entwine the flesh of two distinct bei
ngs to form something new? Willingham had been correct. The creature was an abomination, its reptilian creator a blasphemer.

  The winged creature turned on its side. It looked up at me with those brown eyes. Fallen, it was still captivating and horrible. Reluctantly, seeing no alternative course of action, I started to reload my revolver again but there was no need. Whatever magic held the creature together was coming undone.

  I watched as the two halves pulled free of one another. The sundering was horrible to witness. Each wailed in sorrow as their unnatural intimacy ended. Somehow the creature they had been was greater than the sum of their individual parts. Each of them knew it. They mourned the loss as they were torn from each other. My eyes remained on Miss Drayson. Uncertain if either of them would survive, I could only give witness to the horrible process of separation.

  When it was done they were both gone. There had been a green light, bright enough to make me avert my eyes. When I looked back both had disappeared. Holmes lay where he had fallen. I hurried to his side.

  So it was that Scotland Yard found us — in the centre of a bloody room that stank of gore and spent ammunition. It was indeed fortunate that we were known to the officers of the Yard. Had Holmes and I not been so familiar I do not doubt we would have found ourselves locked in a cell to await charges of murder.

  I told the police Willingham had been attacked by a large, foreign-looking man with an uncommonly wide sword. Willingham, I explained, was dead when we entered the room. Upon our arrival the attacker knocked Holmes to the ground, giving me time to draw my revolver and fire six shots into the brute. The assassin screamed and left by way of the window. Rather than give chase, I remained behind to tend to Holmes.

  “Watson.” Holmes shook his bandaged head as he listened to my tale. “Your aim is slipping.”

  “So it would appear,” I agreed. Holmes listened to the account I gave to Scotland Yard without comment or question. Nor did he make any inquiries as we journeyed back to Baker Street. Very quickly the matter became just another case. Other crimes took Holmes’ fancy. A letter of gratitude arrived from the much-improved Catherine Drayson. Another grateful missive from her father informed us of her release from the asylum. Such tokens were nothing new to Holmes and, as was his custom, he ignored them. Holmes quickly put the case behind him. However, as you might suppose, I have thought of the matter often.