by Kim Newman
“None at all,” said Sir Henry, pouring brandies. “He was also a Crimean veteran. Military men form allegiances that last a lifetime.”
“Men without enemies are rarely found with their throats cut,” muttered Holmes, sinking into his armchair. “I think I should hear more about this local legend of yours.”
“Then you should speak to Reverend Horniman,” said Sir Henry. “I understand he is something of an expert on the subject.”
As we retired for bed, Miss Woodham stopped Holmes on the landing, anxious to speak to him beyond the hearing of Sir Henry.
“Mr. Holmes, I do believe the Devil is at work here,” she whispered. “My father is in fear of his life, and even Mr. Charlton — usually the most stoic of gentlemen — seems to have taken fright. Something terrible is haunting this house, and you are our last hope.”
“I will do what I can, Miss Woodham, I promise you that.” Holmes laid a reassuring hand on her arm, but would say no more.
The next morning dawned bare and bitter, but dry at least. We walked to the parish church, planning to have a word with the reverend after his first service.
“We are honoured to have encouraged the attention of London’s famous consulting detective,” said Rev. Horniman, welcoming us into the now emptied church, “but this is a terrible business.”
“I was hoping you could enlighten us about your village’s strange superstition,” said Holmes.
“I can show you something that has lately come to light concerning the legend, if that would help,” the Reverend offered. He returned from the sacristy bearing a parcel of oilskin cloth and carefully unwrapped it. “This was found buried in the parish grounds. Our gravedigger was turning sod in preparation for a new grave when his spade struck something hard.”
Inside the cloth was a glistening medal with an ornate clasp, being in the form of an oak leaf with an acorn at each extremity.
“But why would anyone bury such a thing?” I asked, looking up at Holmes. My companion seemed thunderstruck, and with barely another word set off in the direction of the village. It was all I could do to keep up with him.
“Really, Holmes,” I exclaimed, “I think you might have been a little more civil to the Reverend, he was only trying to help.”
“Civility has no importance when lives are at stake,” came the reply. “Come, my friend, we must head back to the Barley Mow.”
“Are we to view the corpse once more?” I ventured.
“No,” said Holmes, “we must speak with the farmers who drink there.”
We found a surly group of red-faced men in dirty smocks seated around the bar. Holmes had realized that the best way to win them over was to stand a round of drinks, and soon had them talking. I had assumed he would want to prise gossip from them about the stable boy or the head groom, or perhaps about Sir Henry and his treatment of his tenants, but instead Holmes wanted to know about the patterns of the weather.
“This land is dipped between three hills,” said one of the farmers. “The rain clouds come a-sweeping over the trees and the air gets trapped, see, so we get more’an our fair share of storms — they start by swirling around in the vale and can’t break back out.”
Holmes turned to nudge me. “It is as I suspected,” he said. “And can you stout fellows recall the most recent sequence of storms?”
We came away with a full record of recent bad weather attested to by the farmers. I could not see the relevance of this information, and as Holmes hurried us away in the direction of the grange I asked him what he hoped to find.
“I have a part of the puzzle but no more than that,” he admitted. “To reach the true solution I begin to wonder if I must think the unthinkable. Let us catch up with Sir Henry, for I fear there is another storm coming in that could place him in great danger.”
“A storm?” I cried. “I realize we are in the countryside where there is a greater risk in such meteorological events, but surely the Major General has nothing to fear from bad weather.”
“It is not the storm Sir Henry has to fear,” replied Holmes, “but what hides inside it. Tell me, Watson, do you believe Our Majesty when she says that God has chosen the English people to lead the world?”
“Well, I believe she was elected by God to lead our nation, and as she is the head of the most powerful empire on Earth I imagine that gives us great strength.”
“Yes, but is it truly divine right? What if our belief is wrong?”
“It is something I cannot think about, save for the fact that, as a doctor, I believe that all peoples of the earth are created equal, and are just in different stages of development.”
“Hm. Wise words, my friend, but there are some who would find your opinions heresy. Come, we must find Sir Henry before another crime is enacted.”
“Surely you cannot think he is the culprit!” I interrupted.
“No, Watson, but I think the ghosts of his past are unleashing an unstoppable evil upon this estate.”
We reached the hall just as a fresh storm broke overhead. Divesting ourselves of our wet topcoats, we went to find the Major General, but were halted by Miss Woodham.
“There you are,” she said. “My father was quite unseated by the rising storm and has gone out to await your arrival — did you not pass him? He was going to the top of the drive.”
Holmes uttered an epithet not suited for female ears and turned on his heel. I followed, running to keep pace. We crossed the torn-up lawn and searched right and left. Sir Henry was standing between the lines of darkening beeches, but it was hard for me to keep sight of him. The rising gale was tearing leaves and even branches across our path.
“Can you hear that?” called Holmes. “It sounds like voices.”
Indeed, I fancied I heard in the blast of wind that caught my ear the sound of crying voices, in great pain, terror and yes — anger. The sky was bruised in roiling shades of black and brown. “We must get Sir Henry to safety!” I shouted. “The stables are at our back.”
With a few long strides, Holmes had seized the old military man and pulled him away, but even as he did so I saw the hoof prints begin to appear. They were puckering the soil directly ahead of Sir Henry, thundering toward him. “This is madness!” I cried. “It’s as if the very gates of Hell are opening!”
The ground spat and tore all around us, clods of earth flying in every direction as the unseen hooves smashed and crushed the turf underfoot. There was a terrible slashing in the air, and Sir Henry flinched as if struck.
Reaching the stables, we tore open the doors and thrust Sir Henry inside. He offered no resistance, and collapsed on the hay bales as we battened down the entrance once more. It was then I saw that he had been cut — not deeply, as Holmes had been able to pull him back from harm, but enough to cause a fast flow of surface blood from his arm. I tore a horse blanket into strips and quickly staunched the bleeding.
As the wind and rain hammered the walls and clattered across the tin roof, thunder smashed so loudly that we could not hear each other speak. And so we remained for half an hour, until the worst of the tempest had passed and escaped to the hills once more.
“What devilry is this?” gasped Sir Henry. “Please, Mr. Holmes, go and make sure that my daughter is safe.”
Holmes went ahead, and I brought the Major General back to the house, but he was much depleted in energy. Upon arrival, I took the liberty of pouring him a brandy, and had one myself. Then I set about properly cleaning and dressing his wound.
Feeling that we were safer in assembly, the five of us, Holmes, myself, Miss Woodham, Sir Henry and Charles Charlton gathered in the great room and waited for the clouds to clear, but by now night had fallen. Upstairs, the nurse sat with the mute stable-boy, whose dark eyes continued to stare at the ceiling as if seeing beyond into the blackest reaches of space.
A servant passed through with tapers and lit the room, dispelling some of our fears. We gathered around the fireplace, feeling stronger but no less disturbed.
“So
me thirty years ago we all fought the Russians,” said Sir Henry. “I believe the souls of our dead enemies have returned, to continue their war against us from beyond the grave.”
“I think not,” Holmes replied. “I can explain in part what is happening, but there is one more piece of the puzzle still to place.”
“Please, Mr. Holmes,” entreated Miss Woodham, “shed any light you can on these terrible visitations.” As she spoke, we heard the wind begin to rise once more, and a fresh squall of rain hit the leadlight windows.
“The storm has circled and is coming back once more,” said Mr. Charlton as the candles closest to the window guttered and blew out.
Holmes ignored the noise of the tempest and continued. “It is said that the forces of nature have the power to open rifts between our world and the next. Each time the Devil’s hoof prints have appeared, it has been during a time of natural disruption. This, after all, is the season of storms. As the possessor of one of the finest rational minds in the country, I cannot condone such thinking, you understand, but I appreciate how such beliefs arise. And then there was the matter of the little curate, Reverend Horniman, who set me thinking further.” Holmes dug into his jacket pocket and held up the gold medal. “Three months ago, at the very time these attacks first started, the Reverend’s gravedigger unearthed this medallion in his churchyard. In itself it is a rare enough piece, being awarded to those who fought in the Crimean theatre of war. But this particular one, with the ornate oak leaves on the cross-bar, is given only to those who had direct engagement with the enemy.”
“I have one in my possession,” said Sir Henry. “My head groom was also in my regiment, and possessed another.”
“Indeed, sir. I took the imposition of checking. You may be aware that there are several other men from your regiment living in this village.”
“After the war, many of the men who had fought together chose to resettle in their old villages, and many recruits came from Devon.”
“But I believe there is another medal like this, with the oak leaf cross bar, held by someone in this very house.” Holmes looked at Mr. Charlton.
“The one you found in the churchyard is mine,” said Mr. Charlton in shame.
“But why, man?” cried Sir Henry. “Why would you bury such an honour?”
“Because I could not bear to look at it,” said Mr. Charlton. “For what it represents, and the way it makes me feel. I hoped never to see it again. I determined to bury it soon after receiving it.” He turned to Holmes. “The other old soldiers in the village don’t know, sir. They are not a part of this.”
“A part of what?” coaxed Holmes.
“It was a secret held by only the three of us; and I am the most to blame for I carried out the order.”
“I think you had better tell us the truth now, Mr. Charlton,” said Holmes, with urgency in his voice as the storm continued to rise.
“It sounds as if the wind is trying to tear off the roof,” said Miss Woodham, glancing to the ceiling with apprehension.
“You must understand the difficulties we faced, sir,” continued Mr. Charlton, as more candles were snuffed out, and only the fluttering flames in the fireplace lit his face. “The British army was poorly prepared to fight the Russians, and even more ill-equipped for the attack on the Crimean Peninsular. From the shore where we arrived to the battlefield was a lengthy and difficult journey by mule. Lord Cardigan and Lord Lucan were fools too busy baiting one another to take proper care of their troops. Food supplies were dropped at the dock and left to rot because we had no way of getting them to our men.
“It was I who made the decision to requisition the horses for the cavalry officers. I thought I could take them for our comrades, and the food supplies would be delivered by mule through the mountains. I did not know that most of the mules had died, and that without them there was no way of the food getting through.”
“I knew our comrades needlessly died of starvation when they should have lived to fight the enemy,” said Sir Henry, shocked. “But I did not know of the part you played, Charles.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Believe me; had I known the results of my actions, I would not have acted thus.”
“Then these are not the spirits of avenging Russians, but of our own men!”
“Are there others in the village who are privy to this knowledge?” asked Holmes. “It is vital that I am in full possession of the facts.”
“No sir,” said Mr. Charlton, “for I made sure that the requisition copies were destroyed. The secret resides solely with me, and now the deed is being punished. The dead do, indeed, return. And the lives of all those who survived in place of their fallen comrades are at risk.”
“Pish,” said Holmes. “I do not believe in ghosts. You think the spirits of the fallen have been enticed by the Devil to take revenge against you? That they ride from Hades to take your lives?”
“Sir, I know this to be the case, and you have seen the hoof prints yourself, not made by horses but by the cloven-footed devils upon whom the soldiers of the dead must ride, for you see — they had no horses of their own.”
“It is madness to consider such superstitious nonsense,” said Holmes, but even as he spoke the wind howled down the chimney, blasting a great inferno of cinders out into the room, extinguishing the few remaining candles. Miss Woodham and myself stamped out the burning embers, but now the far window had blown in, as if the Devil himself was leaning against the walls. The full fury of the storm was attempting to enter the house.
“I must go out there and offer myself,” said Mr. Charlton wildly. “It was I who exposed my guilt before God by burying the medal, and now I must save Sir Henry while there is still time.”
“Listen to me, Mr. Charlton,” said Holmes, “I honestly believe you blame yourself for angering the dead, but it is a storm that caused the churning of the ground, and lightning that slashed the throat of your groom, nothing more.”
“That is not true, Holmes, and you know it!” I cried. “I saw the wound for myself.”
“You are a man of science, Watson, you cannot believe this too!”
Mr. Charlton ran to the door and flung it wide. We started after him, to pull him back into the safety of the room, but we were too late. He ran out onto the lawn and shouted at the sky, where a funnel of thick black cloud was spinning down towards the earth.
We felt the ground shake beneath us as great brown clods of mud were torn in a channel that roared toward Mr. Charlton like a platoon stampeding through a valley. The ‘Phantoms of the Dead’, as the stable boy had called them, had returned. We watched in horror as Mr. Charlton’s body was slowly lifted in the air, punched and twisted this way and that, as if unseen creatures were pushing at him. Blood flew about his face and neck, then his chest and arms, and finally his limbs were torn and stretched until they broke. We could hear each crack and cry from below, where we stood. When he was eventually released and fell, we saw the slashes across his stout form that had parted clothing and flesh all the way to the bone, cutting him to ribbons. Mr. Charlton was dead even before he had hit the ground.
A spectacular flash of lightning illuminated the scene. For a brief second I saw — or fancied I saw — the fiery horned devils who bore the dead on their backs, armed with unsheathed cavalry swords. And then they were gone, thundering back into the rolling clouds, born away by the tempestuous night.
“No more!” Holmes slammed the doors shut at his back, leaving the fallen man outside.
“No, Mr. Holmes, now there is only me, and I am an old man whose time has come,” said Sir Henry, as his daughter ran to his side.
“Father, the Devil has had his due,” exclaimed Miss Woodham. “Mr. Charlton has made right his terrible mistake.”
“Perhaps that is so,” said Sir Henry, “for there is no greater crime than when an officer has made his own men suffer.”
“You are wrong, sir,” said Holmes with some passion. “The greater crime is to engage the enemy in the sure belief that Go
d is on your side.” He turned to me. “Come, Watson, I feel we should return to London tonight. There is nothing more to be done here.”
I had never seen my friend in a mood like this. He was angry. Not detached and analytical, but furious that he was being forced to face the impossible and consider it real. I felt sure that back in London he would bury his doubts once more in work and the syringe.
My last view of Sir Henry was as a sickly old man being comforted by his daughter, slumped in his armchair before the dying fire, disturbed by doubts that he might have spent his life believing in things that were not true.
Holmes and I returned to London, but during the long train journey home we did not speak of the case again, for fear that it might have awoken a chasm between us that no amount of reason could ever fill.
* * * * *
CHRISTOPHER FOWLER is the multi-award winning author of over thirty novels including the recently released Bryant and May Off the Rails, the eighth novel to feature Bryant and May. In addition to writing novels and short stories Christopher has written comedy and drama for BBC Radio One (including the Sherlock Holmes story The Lady Upstairs), has written articles and columns for a variety of publications and recently completed Celebrity for the stage.
“The Deadly Sin of Sherlock Holmes” by Tom English
Illustration by Luke Eidenschink
The Deadly Sin of Sherlock Holmes
by Tom English
Hundreds of years ago, around the time of Magna Carta, while England endured the growing pains of an empire in its infancy, and kings and kingdoms waged endless wars across Europe; and long before Prince Wilhelm von Ormstein’s dalliance with the woman Irene Adler, the aftermath of which, were it not for the intervention of Sherlock Holmes, might have ended in a royal scandal in Bohemia, yet another chapter of history was being written in a Benedictine monastery in an obscure Bohemian village. Its consequences would span centuries, and dreadful would be its effects.
