Gaslight Arcanum: Uncanny Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Kim Newman

  “Where is the funnel? I don’t see one.”

  “Because there is no funnel. At least there isn’t one fixed to the wreck. It must have become detached as the ship foundered years ago.”

  “So why did Barstow describe the wreck in such a way?”

  “Evidently, Barstow cannot see the wreck as it really is, sans funnel. Nor can he see that the water at this depth is black — not green.”

  “So who did the voice belong to that we heard coming from the speaker?”

  “It belongs to whoever is responsible for the deaths of those two men yesterday. And who will be responsible for our deaths today, if our wits aren’t sharp enough.” He clapped his hands together. “Pah! See the wreck. It’s a jumble of scrap metal covered in weed. Barstow’s description belonged to someone who has never seen a wreck on the ocean bed before. Instead, they based their description on pictures of ships that they see on sitting room walls.”

  “To repeat myself, Holmes, who did the voice actually belong to?”

  “Ah, that can wait, Watson. Our descent is slowing. Soon we will look into Barstow’s lair.” He shot me a glance. “His tomb?”

  The crane operator stopped paying out the hawser as we bumped against the bottom. Just a yard or so away lay the diving bell — the twin of the one we now sat in. Though confoundedly gloomy down here I could make out some detail. Kelp grew from the iron cylinder. The rounded shape was suggestive of some monstrous skull covered with flowing hair. Spars from the wreck had enclosed the diving bell like the bars of a cage, trapping it that fateful day five years ago. A grip so tight that the haulage gear had snapped the hawser as it strove to raise the doomed submersible to the surface.

  Those black waters would reveal little. Not until Holmes closed a switch. The moment he did so, a light sprang from the lamp fixed to our craft.

  “Now we can see who resides inside the Pollux.” Holmes took a deep breath as his keen eyes made an assessment. “Are we of the same opinion of the occupant?”

  Likewise, I took a steadying breath. I peered through our porthole and into the porthole of the craft trapped by the stricken bullion carrier, Fitzwilliam. “Now I see. But I don’t understand how he speaks to us.”

  “Confirm what you observe, Watson.”

  “A cadaver. Partly mummified as a result of being confined in an airtight compartment. Inert. Lying on the bench at the rear of the vessel.”

  “The man would have been dead within a few hours of being marooned without an air supply. Is that not so?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Notice that the hawser has been retrieved and snakes up to the surface. But notice, equally, that the telephone cable has been snapped at the point it should enter the Pollux. Barstow, alive or dead, never made so much as a single call once that cable had parted from the apparatus within his diving bell.”

  “So, who is responsible?”

  “A creature of flesh and blood!” If it weren’t for the confines of the diving bell an excited Sherlock Holmes would have sprung to his feet. “Miss Claudine Millwood! Twin sister of that man’s widow.” He inhaled deeply, his nostrils twitching in the manner of a predator catching scent of its prey. “You see, Watson, I shall one day write a monograph on an especially rarefied subject. Yet one which will be invaluable to police when interrogating suspects or, more importantly, discussing certain matters, within the hearing of a suspect. I have observed, during my career as a consulting detective, that the eyes of a human being move in such a prescribed way that they hint at what they are thinking. Strongly hint at that! With practice, one can become quite adept at reading the eye-line of a man or woman.”

  “Therefore, you studied Miss Claudine Millwood when you questioned Mrs. Barstow?”

  “That I did, sir. In this case, as I spoke to the widow, I also took careful note of the direction of Miss Millwood’s eye-line. When I mentioned Mr. Barstow by name the woman’s gaze became unfocussed, yet directed slightly downward and some degrees off centre to her left. Trust me, Watson, how we arrange our limbs and direct our gaze reveals volumes to the competent observer.”

  “Therefore you could glean her unspoken thoughts?”

  “To a degree. The direction of her gaze and the unfocussed eyes told me that Miss Millwood was in the process of recalling a memory that is not only secret to her, but one she knew would shock or revolt right-minded individuals. That was enough to arouse my suspicions.”

  “And you divined this by reading the eye-line? Remarkable!”

  “Just as you, a medical man, can diagnose an illness from subtle symptoms. Moreover! The woman couldn’t bear to hear her own sister reveal that private, intimate name, which, once upon a time, she murmured into her husband’s ear. A name that Claudine Millwood, did not know.”

  “Millwood was in love with her sister’s husband?”

  “Without a shadow of doubt. Whether that love was reciprocated or not we don’t know.”

  “And during the years Barstow lay in that iron tomb the love grew.”

  “Indeed! The love grew — and it grew malignantly. That obsessive love took on a life of its own. Millwood projected thoughts from her own mind into the telephone apparatus. She imitated the late Mr. Barstow.”

  “Why didn’t she want us to venture down here?”

  “That would have destroyed the fantasy. We would have returned to the surface, but not, however, with an account of finding a handsome young man full of miraculous life, still trapped within the diving bell. No! We would have returned with the grim fact that we gazed upon a shrivelled corpse.” Holmes snapped his fingers. “We would have ruptured the fantasy. The woman has incredible mental powers, certainly — yet she is quite mad.”

  “So she killed the crew of the Castor yesterday?”

  “In order to prevent them describing what we, ourselves, now see.”

  “Holmes, Captain Smeaton claimed they were frightened to death.”

  “Miss Millwood will have conjured some terrible chimera, no doubt.”

  “And the shadow that attacked us as we descended?”

  “Millwood.”

  “Then she won’t allow us to return to the surface?”

  “No, Watson. She will not.”

  “Therefore, she won’t stop at yet more slayings to keep her fantasy alive — that Barstow is immortal?”

  “Indubitably. However, we do have recourse to the telephone.” He picked up the handset.

  “But the woman fell in a dead faint. I checked her myself; she’s deeply unconscious.”

  “My good doctor, I don’t doubt your assessment. However, recall the essays of Freud and Jung. Aren’t the leviathans of deep waters nothing in comparison to those leviathans of our own subconscious?’

  Holmes turned the handle of the telephone apparatus. At that precise instant, a dark shape sped through the field of electric light. This time the walls didn’t impede its progress. A monstrous shadow flowed through the iron casing of the diving bell. Instantly it engulfed us. We could barely breathe as tendrils of darkness slipped into our bodies, seeking to occupy every nerve and sinew.

  “Watson, I am mistaken! The woman’s attacks are far more visceral than I anticipated.”

  “She’s invading the heart. Those men died of heart failure. Ah…” A weight appeared to settle onto my ribs. Breathing became harder. My heart thudded, labouring under the influence of that malign spirit. “Holmes, you must tell the … the captain to distract her. Her flow of unconscious thought must be disrupted.”

  Holmes grimaced as he struggled to breathe. “A shock … how best to administer a shock?”

  “Electricity.”

  With a huge effort Holmes spoke into the telephone. “Captain Smeaton. Ah… I…”

  “Mr. Holmes?”

  “Listen. We will soon be dead. Do as I say … uh … don’t question … do you understand?”

  “I understand.” The man’s voice was assured. He would obey.

  “Is Millwood there?”

 
; “Yes, she’s still unconscious.”

  “Then rip the power cables from an electrical appliance. Apply the live wire to her temple.”

  “Mr. Holmes?”

  “Do it, man … otherwise you haul up two more corpses!”

  Then came a wait of many moments. Indeed, a long time seemed to pass. I could no longer move. The shadowy presence coiled about the interior of the diving bell as if it were black smoke. We sagged on the bench, our heartbeats slowing all the time. Another moment passed, another nudge toward death. That shadow was also inside of us, impressing itself on the nerves of the heart.

  All of a sudden, a woman’s piercing scream erupted from the earpiece of the telephone.

  Immediately, thereafter, Captain Smeaton thundered: “Damn you man, I’ve done as you asked. But you’ve made me into a torturer!”

  Instantly, the oppression of my cardiac system lifted. I breathed easily again.

  Holmes was once more his vigorous self. “No, Captain. You are no torturer. You are our saviour.”

  I leaned toward the telephone in order to ask, “Is she alive?”

  “Yes, Doctor Watson. In fact, the electrical shock has roused her.”

  The black shadow in the cabin dissipated. I heaved a sigh of relief as I sensed that entity dispel its atoms into the surrounding waters. The diving bell gave a lurch. And it began to rise from the sea bed. The ocean turned lighter. Black gave way to purple, then to blue.

  Holmes, however, appeared to suddenly descend into an abyss of melancholy.

  “We’re safe, Holmes. And the mystery is solved.”

  He nodded.

  “Then why, pray, are you so downcast?”

  “Watson. I didn’t reveal the purpose of my trip to Cornwall. I came here to visit an old friend. You see, his six year old daughter is grievously ill. No, I am disingenuous to even myself. The truth of the matter is this: she is dying.”

  “I am very sorry to hear that, Holmes. But how did that sad state of affairs bring you to investigate this case of the diving bell?”

  “An act of desperation on my part.” He rested his fingertips together; his eyes became distant. “When I heard the seemingly miraculous story that a man had been rendered somehow immortal I raced here. It occurred to me that Barstow in his diving bell had stumbled upon a remarkable place on the ocean bed that had the power to keep death at bay.”

  “And you came here for the sake of the little girl?”

  “Yes, Watson, but what did I find? A woman that has the power to project a sick fantasy from her mind and cause murder. For a few short hours I had truly believed I might have a distinct chance of saving little Edith’s life. However…” He gave a long, grave sigh. “Alas, Watson. Alas…”

  * * * * *

  SIMON CLARK lives in Doncaster, England with his family. When his first novel, Nailed by the Heart, made it through the slush-pile in 1994 he banked the advance and embarked upon his dream of becoming a full-time writer. Many dreams and nightmares later he wrote the cult zombie classic Blood Crazy. Other titles include Darkness Demands, Vengeance Child and The Night of the Triffids, which continues the story of Wyndham’s Sci-Fi classic.

  Simon’s latest novel is Whitby Vampyrrhic, a decidedly gruesome and ultra-violent horror-thriller set in World War Two.

  The Greatest Mystery

  by Paul Kane

  My dear and faithful reader. It is only now that I am able to recount the truly shocking events of what I firmly believe to be my dearest friend and colleague Sherlock Holmes’ greatest ever mystery. Upon first reading these words, you may feel my claim is somewhat of an exaggeration. What about the case of the Baskerville Hound, you might ask, quite possibly his most famous adventure to date? What about his entanglements with the evil Professor Moriarty (the merest mention of which will later have great significance, I can assure you)? But I have faithfully chronicled the master detective’s cases over the years and I can categorically attest to the validity of my statement. I alone was witness to its eventual outcome and, once you have finished this offering, I feel certain that you too will agree about the choice of title. I can also promise that while I have been taken to task in the past for what Holmes called my embellishment of these accounts — the addition of, to quote the man himself, ‘color and … life’ (the latter an irony, as you will soon see) — there is not a word of this that is not the whole truth. Whether you believe me or not is, in the end, your choice — all I can do is report the facts of this most singular case as I experienced them, no matter how strange they might seem.

  The matter in question began with a simple case — although you might recall the air of strangeness and tension against which it was set, in the months approaching the turn of the century. Indeed, these very events were thought by some to be interlinked, though you will soon realize that this was not in fact so. The real explanation goes beyond that, beyond anything you might have thought possible. But I am getting ahead of myself once more…. The case in hand was an apparently straightforward crime, yet as Holmes is often at great pains to teach me, things are seldom what they appear at first glance.

  And so, to the details. A lady by the name of Miss Georgia Cartwright called upon us one afternoon in late September, begging that we pay a visit to her cousin Simon.

  “In jail,” Holmes said, motioning for Miss Cartwright to sit down. When he noticed her look of confusion, he waved a hand and explained: “The faint marks on your dress and your arms, a distinctive pattern showing you have recently been pressed up against a set of iron bars…. Pray tell us of what your cousin is accused, Miss Cartwright?”

  “I am sad to say Simon stands accused of … of … murdering his fiancée, and my best friend, Miss Judith Hatten,” she told us, gratefully accepting a seat as well as a handkerchief; the latter to dry her eyes. “But he couldn’t have … he simply could not.”

  Holmes sat down opposite her, steepling his fingers. “If you would furnish me with the facts, Miss Cartwright, and please do not leave anything out. Even the smallest detail might be of significance.”

  Sadly, it soon became clear, as she related what she knew, that the culprit could be none other than her relation. The night before last, Simon had visited Judith to discuss their forthcoming wedding. Upon hearing a disturbance in the living room, where Simon had been escorted only minutes beforehand, the girl’s only living parent — her father — discovered the young man standing over the body of Judith. The young lady had suffered a tremendous head wound. In Simon’s hand was a poker, dripping with blood. Mr. Hatten flew into a fury and had to be held back by his staff from attacking Simon himself, while Miss Cartwright’s cousin was held down until the authorities arrived.

  Holmes frowned, obviously reaching the same conclusion as I.

  “He swears it was not him … says that he cannot remember what happened, Mr. Holmes. And I believe him. Simon is the gentlest man in the world and he did so love Judith. I know he did. He would never have raised a finger to hurt her.”

  Holmes raised an eyebrow. “It is so often the case, however, that we do not truly know our friends and loved ones Miss Cartwright.”

  “We grew up together and were as close as brother and sister. I do know him, Mr. Holmes. Please, I implore you,” she said, clasping her hands together. “Visit him yourself.”

  Holmes glanced sideways, attempting not to let this sway his judgement, but in spite of his somewhat cool exterior, my friend has never been able to turn away anyone in such distress. Yet I have seen him reject far more intriguing investigations, so something about this particular case must have piqued his interest. I wish to God now, looking back, that he’d had the courage to simply inform Miss Cartwright he could not help. If that sounds harsh, believe me, it will not by the time I have finished this tale.

  So it was that we found ourselves in a coach on our way to see her cousin at Scotland Yard’s ‘charming’ prison. The journey at least afforded me some time to glean Holmes’ thoughts about the case.

 
“Surely it would be wrong to get the young woman’s hopes up,” I told him. “The man’s destined for the noose. There might not have been witnesses to the actual deed, but being caught with the murder weapon in one’s possession implies just as much guilt.”

  Holmes steadfastly refused to be drawn on the matter until we’d seen the prisoner for ourselves. When we arrived and asked to see the man, Inspector Lestrade similarly conveyed the opinion that my friend was wasting his time.

  “I can not understand why Miss Cartwright has brought you into such an affair,” said the sly-looking policeman. “There was nothing untoward in the investigation, I can assure you, Mr. Holmes.” His tone was defensive, as if he thought we were criticising his procedure. Nevertheless, he granted us full access to the man, in part because of all the help Holmes has been to the police in his career — often without due credit — but I think also because he was confident enough that nothing we discovered would make him look inferior to his men. “The father is baying for the man’s blood,” Lestrade called after us, as if he thought that might change our minds.

  The young prisoner had a haunted look about him. He was staring at the stone wall opposite, and from time to time just shook his head as if he could not comprehend how he had arrived in this dark, dank place.

  “Your cousin Georgia has asked that we speak with you,” Holmes said, after making our introductions, but could elicit no response.

  “She tells us that you deny any wrongdoing in the murder of Miss Judith Hatten,” said I, at which I did notice a twitch of his eye. Then, suddenly, he was holding his head in his hands, tearing at his hair.

  “I did not murder her,” he whispered, almost inaudibly, then screamed: “I did not murder her!” Simon looked across at us, eyes as tearful as his cousin’s were but an hour earlier. “P-Please… Please, you have to believe me…”

  Holmes stepped closer to the bars. “Then tell us who did.”

  Simon shook his head again, but it wasn’t a refusal; it was simply that he had no idea what to say. What could he say, when all the evidence pointed towards him? He would say nothing more, even when pressed, and we left not long afterwards — Holmes informing the guard on duty that he should be watched.