“Guessing will not be necessary, Mr. Munro. The light of reason shall reveal all,” I said. “Now, I wonder if you could tell me more about Effie’s past. You said she was a widow when you met her?”
“Yes. She had a husband, back in America, and a daughter too, sadly. Sad, I say, because they both died of yellow fever.”
“I see. And this husband, what do you know of him?”
“Well… his name was Hebron—Octavius Hebron.”
“An unusual name,” I noted.
“Perfect for an anthromancer…”
“Holmes, shut up. Please continue, Mr. Munro.”
“Well… Effie always speaks well of him, but every time a conversation turns his way, she spends half her time making excuses for his behavior. It embarrasses me to speak ill of him, for I still enjoy the fruits of his investments, but I think he treated Effie quite badly and if I had the chance to meet him, I would like to bloody his nose.”
“Have you ever seen proof of this husband?” I asked. “Either his life, his death or his marriage to Effie?”
“I have multiple stocks with his name and signature, a copy of the marriage certificate—by which right Effie claims the funds of his investments—as well as a birth certificate for their child and a death certificate for Hebron himself.”
“And you believe these documents to be genuine?” I asked.
“Well, there is one discrepancy,” said Munro, rubbing his chin. “Though Hebron’s death certificate lists yellow fever as the cause, Effie says it is not correct. She once told me that that diagnosis was only arrived at because of the yellowed color of his body, but that he had actually died in childbirth.”
“He?” I asked.
“Yes. He. Hebron.”
“And what aspect of childbirth, Mr. Munro, do you suppose might be fatal to the father?”
Munro shrugged and said, “Well I don’t know, do I? You are the doctor. I know nothing of what goes on in the birthing room and—let me tell you—now that I know what became of Octavius Hebron, I am even less likely to wander into one to find out!”
“In that, you show your wisdom, sir,” said I. “As a medical doctor, I can tell you that the birthing room is no place for a husband. Having the father present destroys marriages. He who can walk out of a birthing room with any shred of desire left for his wife is the same man who can walk out of a slaughterhouse hungry for a steak. Many of my medical contemporaries lament that Elizabeth Blackwell or any of her sex were ever granted a medical degree, but I am firmly of the opinion that we need more lady doctors, as fast as they can be trained. Let the schools be filled with them! Let them take over the job of birthing and let us male doctors wash our hands of it—and we would wash them thoroughly indeed. We would scrub and scrub. We would heave a collective sigh of relief heard round the world and thank our gods that the womenfolk were now left in sole possession of their own secrets—those sticky, stinking, screaming, bleeding, pushing, howling, juicy secrets which…”
I became aware of Holmes and Munro staring at me.
“Ahem… Well… I have digressed, gentlemen, but the fact is clear: as a medical doctor I can confidently state that no danger to the life of the father is posed by the act of childbirth. Octavius Hebron’s cause of death is false. His death certificate is false. And I feel sufficiently sure to say his death itself is false. Mr. Munro, I believe him to be alive and seeking to reclaim his fortune from your wife.”
“By God!” Munro shouted. “That would explain it all!”
“Would it?” said Holmes. “I just don’t see it, Watson.”
“Holmes, how can you not? We know from the photograph that the person in that cottage has a personal relationship with Effie. We know that Mr. Hebron’s death certificate is patently false. Ah! A thought occurs! What if Octavius Hebron conferred his own name on a stillborn child? Thus, the child’s death would result in a death certificate in Hebron’s name! Let us also remember the sometimes-fatal condition of jaundice, which is common in newborns and results in a marked yellowing of the skin. Effie says she is bound to her mysterious antagonist by promises older than those she made to Mr. Munro, suggesting her previous vows of fidelity to a first husband. We know that she tried to throw money at this person in the hope that they would go away and she has hinted to Mr. Munro that she intends to do it again. This jibes well with the notion that her tormentor is indeed Octavius Hebron. Since she is in possession of his thousands, he is unlikely to settle for such a paltry sum as Effie first delivered. The situation obviously causes her some distress, as she has twice expressed that she wishes this episode resolved so that she and Mr. Munro may be happy together.”
“And thank God for that,” Mr. Munro interjected. “If the worst comes to pass, he can take his money and go. I don’t care, so long as I keep Effie.”
“You really are quite attached to her, aren’t you?” asked Holmes with a sympathetic smile.
“I told you I was,” said Munro, “and it will be a relief indeed if she still favors me. Oh, I hope it is exactly as you say, Dr. Watson. I shall return home at once and confront them both! Let me keep her love and I will chance whatever else may come!”
“Have a care, Mr. Munro,” I advised, “my case is incomplete. Even if the situation is as I think, there are many questions still unanswered. Why did Hebron fake his death? Is there some hidden advantage he has gained by his obfuscation? What is his final goal? We assume it to be the recovery of his funds, but have no proof of it. No, if you are to confront him, I suggest you do not go alone into his den. Go in company. Go in force.”
“What, shall I raise a militia?” Munro laughed.
“No need,” said Holmes. “I can tell from his zeal that Watson is volunteering our services. Isn’t that so, Watson?”
“There is a train for Norbury that leaves within the hour. I propose we board it, gentlemen, and see this mystery through to its conclusion!”
“Bravo!” cried Holmes.
I will now confess a certain lack of empathy, on my part: my eagerness to see the case through had nothing to do with Mr. and Mrs. Munro’s happiness. I merely wished to teach Holmes a lesson. In the train we were all excited, but I had the especial glee of one who was about to prove a point. As we neared Norbury, Mr. Munro became ever more nervous. So did Holmes.
“I wonder if we have prepared as much as we ought,” Holmes said.
“I have my pistol, if it comes to that,” I reminded him.
“Yes, but if he is an anthromancer, he may have made one or two modifications to himself, which—”
“Holmes! Stop this nonsense! Here in a public place, in front of a man you have only just met, you spout the very hocus-pocus you fear people will associate with your name. Well if they do, you have only yourself to blame! You must learn the lesson of Ockham’s razor: entities must not be multiplied beyond necessity. In other words, the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. This tale has no need of demons or hobgoblins to make it whole; it makes perfect sense without them.”
This seemed to cause him discomfort. He shifted in his seat for a few moments with a knitted brow. After a while he said, “Well… you make a good case, Watson. And I will admit that I have learned much from you in only a short time. Perhaps my… peculiar history has rendered me incapable of understanding the mundane. Do you think it is a flaw in my perspective that leads me to imagine that wicked, supernatural phenomena underlie our daily strife?”
“Yes. I do think that.”
“Oh.”
As we neared the mysterious cottage, my mind was set, my heart was true and my resolve unshakeable. The same could not be said of my companions. Alighting from the trap we had hired, Munro and I spotted a woman sitting on the cottage front step, looking down the lane towards us.
“She is waiting for me!” he gasped, and suddenly he began to trail guiltily behind Warlock and me, occasionally muttering something like, “To have brought strangers… Whatever will she think?”
I strode
straight up the lane with Warlock by my side. “Effie Munro?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied. She was a tall woman, lithe and athletic with nary a wrinkle upon her face nor trace of gray in her hair, despite the troubles that assailed her.
“Stand aside,” I said. “On behalf of your husband, we mean to search this house until the truth is known to us.”
“Intruders will not be tolerated,” Effie Munro said in an even, factual tone.
This had a strange effect on Holmes: he left my side and slunk back to join Munro. Though my companions’ will had failed, mine held. Approaching her, I declared, “I say again, stand aside!” I laid a gentle but forceful hand upon her shoulder to guide her out of my path to the door. Suddenly I had the sensation of one hand on my coat collar and another on my belt. Almost too fast for the eye to follow, her dainty foot kicked my right leg out from under me, then returned to reprise the deed against my left. I had no chance to fall. She yanked me bodily towards the very door I had sought to reach, but swung me back away from it in a wide arc and flung me off the front step, over the fence and into a cow pasture.
I remember my thoughts as I flew: surprise and dismay, but not for the reasons one might assume. It took only an instant to recognize that the amount of force that had just been applied to me was far in excess of that which is commanded by any normal woman (for that matter, any normal man and I think most gorillas). This I took in my stride. No, the thing that bothered me most was being wrong. I had been so methodical and—let me admit—I had thought myself awfully clever, until just a few milliseconds before. How was it that Holmes was right again? How was it that his flawed, ridiculous anti-logic should prove superior to my deductions?
This self-piteous line of reasoning lasted exactly as long as it takes an airborne Londoner to travel thirty feet or so into a muddy field. It was finally arrested by the ground, which also stopped my physical form with a bone-jarring crunch. I have never been so glad to find myself hurled into the mud. If the field had been rocky, I’m sure my spine would have been dashed to powder. I rolled over a few times and slid to a halt, accompanied by the sound of applause. This latter emanated from Warlock Holmes, who clapped like a six-year-old lad at the circus, shouting, “Oh! Marvelous! I had heard the Final Editions were impressive, but I hadn’t realized…”
“Intruders will not be tolerated,” F.E. Munro repeated.
“And what of me, Effie?” Grant Munro cried. “What of the husband you say you love so well? Will you fling me aside too?”
“Probably not,” said Holmes. “She says she is still bound by old loyalties, but when she promised herself to you, she was effectively transferring ownership. If you order her to stand aside, she may.”
“Is that true, Effie? If I ordered you aside, what would you do?”
The automaton stood for a moment, then said, “My first husband once told me that to love unconditionally and obey unconditionally was the basis of a woman’s nature—”
“Chauvinistic and untrue,” Holmes noted. “But then, it is the basis of a romantically purposed homunculus’ nature so… do continue.”
“—so I knew how much I would love you—the day we met, I knew. What I never expected was to be loved in return. It is so nice, Grant. It’s wonderful. I do not know how I would survive if I were forced to return to a life of loving without being loved in turn. I do not know how I should go on without you. Yet, if you walk through this door, I fear that will come to pass.”
“What can be inside, Effie? What is it you feel is strong enough to break our bond?”
“I cannot tell you. Oh, Grant, go away! Please! Come live with me in our house down the lane. Let loose with some of the money from time to time and let me come here in the evenings for an hour or so. Do that and never think of the cottage—it is the only hope for us.”
I think I gasped aloud. Such had been the last few months of my existence that I almost expected to see demons. But to see a grown woman ask her husband—straight to his face, ask him—for permission to give her body to her hated ex-husband once a night so that her new marriage might be uninterrupted… Well, that is a thing I thought never to see.
Yet the impropriety of the thing seemed not to matter to Grant Munro—at least not as much as the fact that a secret would still lie between him and his beloved. “No!” he cried. “Stand aside, Effie! I will discover this secret and I will love you in spite of it!”
“Oh, if only that could be true.”
“You cannot hide such a thing from me! Let me pass, I say!”
Effie hung her head, which began to bob with arrhythmic jerks. She stepped to one side. “Go then,” she said. “It has been good being loved by you, Grant. So good…”
With tears in his eyes, Grant Munro stepped past his wife into the cottage. Holmes moved to follow, but stopped ere he crossed the threshold to ask, “Just to be clear, F.E., what should happen if Watson or I try to go inside?”
“Intruders will be tolerated,” she whispered.
“Capital. Come along, Watson.”
My first impression of the cottage was that it was so still, so lacking in the fundamental heat and movement of life, it must be uninhabited. I saw no sign of the much-abused American woman, nor of the mysterious pale man, but Grant Munro knew better. With fierce resolve he mounted the steps, moving inexorably towards the room at the top of the stairs and the strange face that had haunted him so. I had not yet caught up to him when he reached out and turned the doorknob, so I could not see what lay inside, but I heard the terrible shriek that issued forth from the room. Grant Munro recoiled in terror. Bounding to the top of the stairs, Holmes and I at once looked in to behold F.E.’s secret.
The beast stood barely more than three feet tall. It had a more or less human form, though it was bulbous and possessed of elbows and knees that seemed to flex in both directions. Its skin was bright yellow. It hissed at us, revealing a maw of irregular fangs. It turned and bolted for the windowsill, where it kept its secret identity: a battered Guy Fawkes mask with white skin, black lacquered hair and a pencil-thin moustache. This it thrust on, to cover the shame of its monstrous face, then turned back towards us, seemingly unsure whether it was wisest to hide or to attack.
From behind me came a voice that was at once calm, yet despairing. I had not heard F.E. climb the stairs behind me, not until she announced, “Gentlemen, this is my daughter.”
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” said Holmes, amiably. “Now I get it! So, Octavius Hebron really did die in childbirth.”
“He was not the only one,” F.E. confirmed. “For years I believed I was the only one in the room to have survived. But my midwife, unbeknownst to me, was a witch. She used her skills to preserve not only her life, but also the life of my child, who was raised in a coven these past three years. Only recently did they manage to track me down to England and deliver the news that my daughter yet lived. Midwife Eleanor—whom you met, Grant—promised to bring her if I paid their fare across the ocean, which I did. I installed them here, hoping to be near enough to split my affections between the two people I owed them to—my daughter and my husband—knowing that if the two ever met, I should lose all. Now Eleanor is fled, my secret is revealed and… it’s all coming down, Grant. All is ruined!”
As she spoke, Grant Munro’s gaze drifted between her and the hissing yellow beast that crouched in the corner. I can hardly describe the stress that played across his face. He blinked. He sweated. When F.E. was done he said, “Well…” He looked at Holmes and then at me, but we had no answer for him—a fact we both decided to communicate with helpless shrugs.
“Well,” he said again and suddenly his voice was filled with a shaken confidence. He stood to his full height, straightened his shirt, and walked towards the hideous half-breed three-year-old.
“It seems you and I are at an impasse,” he told it. “The love between a mother and child is nature’s closest bond. By such measures, you have a stronger claim on Effie’s affections than I. Yet, despite t
hat right, I can tell you that I adore her far too much to surrender her to you. I refuse to let you steal my wife from me. I can think of only one course of action.”
He paused to straighten his already straightened shirt, held out his arms and said, “I am your father. My name is Grant.”
Warlock smiled. F.E. burst into tears. The child huddled in the corner, unsure of what to do. It would not approach Munro until he held one hand back towards the doorway and beckoned F.E. to join them. Once its mother was present, the child had no further fear. The three of them embraced.
“What do you call her, Effie? What is her name?”
“She has none. Her father was to have named her, but…”
“Well, I am her father now and I think…” Grant Munro smiled down at the yellowed girl. “I think we shall call her Amber.”
A tap on my shoulder compelled me to turn my attention to Holmes, who softly said, “Our work is done.”
I nodded and turned back towards the stairs.
Outside, raindrops were falling. A glance skyward told of more and heavier soon to follow.
“Our carriage is gone. It must be at least an hour’s walk back to the train station,” I complained.
“Look on the bright side, Watson,” said Holmes, “perhaps the rain will wash some of that mud off you.”
I would have laughed, but he was not joking in the least. I pulled my half-crushed bowler down low, turned my muddied collar up against the rain and set off into the gathering downpour. Warlock followed.
Halfway down the path, I muttered, “You were right, Holmes.”
“Yes… well… never mind that, though.”
“That is kind of you,” said I. “And yet… if ever I should become overzealous, or place too much confidence in the power of my reason, I hope you will lean close and whisper ‘Norbury’ in my ear. I would be indebted to you, Holmes.”
Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone Page 18
