Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone

by G. S. Denning

  “Do you know if any of these relatives might be named Sebastian Moran?” I asked.

  “A few, I think. Sebastian is a common name, out our way.”

  “May one also presume that Dr. Roylott is far from the only member of the family with a sour reputation?”

  “One may indeed,” Miss Stoner agreed, “though I think few of the locals would put it so delicately. The Morans have been hated for generations.”

  “If your stepfather is anything like the Moran I know, he is a formidable gentleman indeed,” said Warlock.

  “Perhaps. I’ve never met any of them, apart from Dr. Roylott,” Miss Stoner said, shrugging.

  “Pray, let it continue to be so,” I muttered. “But let us return to your unfinished tale, Miss Stoner. You have not yet spoken of the reason behind your fear. Why do you suppose yourself to be in mortal danger?”

  “The timing of my sister’s death… and the strangeness of it. You see, she had just become engaged when she died. I thought my stepfather’s famous temper would have been woken, for the existence of what little remains of Stoke Moran is reliant upon my sister’s and my inheritance. So long as we live with Dr. Roylott, he is steward of those funds. In the event of marriage, the inheritance would, of course, have followed Julia and her groom.”

  “Yet Dr. Roylott was not troubled by her engagement?” I asked.

  “No. In fact, he took pains to make himself cordial to both Julia and her fiancé. We half fancied he had undertaken a campaign to ingratiate himself to them and was intending to cajole from them the funds he needed to maintain the house. Julia and I were speaking of it on the night she died…”

  Here Miss Stoner paused to collect herself, for the tears had come again. Presently she told us, “We were in my bedroom. The night was early; the sun had only just set. She complained about her own room. It was stuffy, she said. The window could not open far because of the bars and the vent brought no comfort—no fresh air but only the stench of Dr. Roylott’s cigars and his horrid animals.”

  “Animals?” I asked.

  “Yes. Roylott had his practice in India.”

  “So did I, almost.”

  “He was forced to leave it when—in an altercation over some stolen silverware—he beat his native butler to death.”

  “You know, Watson,” Warlock noted, “he does sound an awful lot like Sebastian Moran.”

  Miss Stoner continued, “When he came back, he brought a monkey, a cheetah and a box of trained cobras. The snakes are confined to his room, but the monkey and the cheetah have their freedom to wander the grounds, so Julia and I had bars upon our windows and we locked our doors at night. Julia made such complaint of her room that night that I offered to share my bed with her, as we used to when we were little. She said no, she would sleep in her own bed and stop being silly. But she asked me if I ever heard noises coming from my vent, sometimes.”

  “Do you?” I interjected.

  “Naught but wind and rain, as you would expect. Yet Julia said she often heard a rasping, a sort of metallic bang and the sound of soft chanting, deep in the darkest hours of night. I thought it only fancy, but it seemed to disturb her. Well, finally she took her leave of me and went back to her room. I don’t know what time it was—it must have been some time after nine, maybe ten in the evening. I only saw her one more time after that. At two o’clock she came back.”

  “To your room?”

  “Yes. I was awoken by the rattle of my doorknob and a scratching on my door. At first I was afraid it was the monkey, but in the confused noises, I recognized Julia’s voice.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing that could be understood. She sounded frantic, at first. But by the time I had risen and opened the door, she seemed quite calm. She stood in my doorway, staring straight ahead, tilting on her heels as if dizzy or drunk. She didn’t even look at me. Then she said, ‘The _eckled _and,’ and then… and then…”

  “What happened, Miss Stoner?”

  “Her eyes—they shrank.”

  “Shrank?”

  “Yes, back inside her head, like two rotten grapes. Then all her skin fell off.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, all upon the rug in a great heap. She was only muscle and bone. She stood there for a moment, trying to say something—it sounded like ‘the _eckled _and’ again—and then her muscles fell away and her skeleton collapsed down on the whole pile of it all. That was the end of her. That is how she died.”

  “Disgusting!” Warlock declared, though his tone of admiration was unmistakable.

  “And, gentlemen, I fear I shall end the same way,” Miss Stoner continued, “for now—through fortune I scarce dared to hope for—my neighbor Mr. Greymalkin has asked my hand. The wording of Mother’s will is such that if I do wed, not only my share of the inheritance will follow me, but Julia’s share as well. Without those monies to support them, Stoke Moran and Dr. Roylott must fall into abject poverty. Yet he did not protest. My stepfather only offered his congratulations and immediately began work on Stoke Moran.”

  “What sort of work?” I asked.

  “Stone work of some sort. I’m not sure the exact nature of it, but it has made my room uninhabitable. Dr. Roylott insists I stay in Julia’s chamber, that very chamber where she was stricken to death—or so I suppose. Oh, I didn’t want to go of course, but Dr. Roylott is… possessed of a most convincing character and I must admit that I spent last night sleeping in my dead twin’s bed.”

  Even more palpable than my sympathy for Helen Stoner was the swell of hatred I felt for Grimesby Roylott. If any chance remained that I might forgive him, Miss Stoner removed it when she burst into fresh tears and said, “And what should I hear last night, in the depths of darkness? I heard the metallic rasp! I heard the banging! I heard the chants! Oh, I could not stay, gentlemen! I fled to the pantry and hid until first light, then made my way here. But I am to return, don’t you see? He expects me to sleep there tonight! I don’t know if I can face it again! What should I do? Oh, what should I do?”

  Holmes digested the question for a few moments then said in slow, thoughtful tones, “Well… I can’t put my finger on exactly why, but… I don’t know… it just seems inadvisable to sleep there. What do you think, Watson?”

  “Holmes! Of course she shall not sleep there! She will not play meekly into this villain’s hands! Shame on you for considering it! No, Miss Stoner, here is what I propose: you go back to Stoke Moran and pretend that nothing unusual has occurred. This afternoon Holmes and I will…”

  But my eye fell across the immovable carcass of my friend and I amended my statement to, “Well… at least one of us will come there to examine the room and formulate a strategy to save you from this mischief.”

  “Hear, hear!” Holmes proclaimed.

  “Could you? Oh, could you?” Miss Stoner cried, alight with new hope. “We have not discussed payment yet and my stepfather controls the finances, but once I am wed…”

  “Let us just consider it an early wedding gift, shall we?” I said. “Expect me by train this afternoon. I presume the house is set back from the road?”

  She nodded. “There is a long drive up to the house. Do watch out for the cheetah. And the monkey.”

  I gulped. “Try to watch the main road to intercept me and keep my arrival a secret from Dr. Roylott. I shall see you in a few hours, Miss Stoner. Until then, be of good cheer; this world yet contains justice and the hearts of men are not so hard as to turn away from a lady in need. You will be safe, I swear it.”

  I ushered her out, bid her farewell and went back upstairs to dress for the country and check my pistol. I had just set about clearing away our teacups when Mrs. Hudson’s voice rang out from the floor below us, screaming in protest. A moment later, I heard heavy steps on the stairs then our front door fell in with a sudden crash. The hinges bent and failed; the lock splintered the doorframe as it was forced into our sitting room. In the doorway stood an angry, red-faced giant of a man with Mr
s. Hudson dangling from his left sleeve, still trying to arrest his rampage. I was sure her collection of illicit novels must have offered no end of tips on how to wrestle men to the ground. Also certain was that she had been eagerly awaiting the chance to put these ideas into practice. She didn’t look pleased with the way things were going, however. Our monstrous guest paid no heed whatsoever to the struggling septuagenarian clinging to his arm.

  “Warlock Holmes!” the trespasser cried. “Which of you is Warlock Holmes?”

  Warlock began to screech out terrified, high-pitched wails, contorting his body as violently as he could in an attempt either to stand or simply to wiggle under the sofa. I stood my ground and assessed the invader.

  His shoulders were impossibly broad. Compared to his vast torso, his legs were small and bowed outwards from the strain of supporting so heavy a load. He wore a red frock coat, a pale yellow scarf and a top hat. His right eye clutched a monocle with such force I thought the glass would shatter. He had cultivated a magnificent ginger moustache, the tips of which quivered as he raged. The overall effect was one of a furious, steroid-riddled circus ringmaster. Yet, the family resemblance was obvious—he was certainly related to Sebastian Moran. In fact, I think if Moran and Grogsson could somehow be made to have a child together, the resultant monstrosity would exactly resemble Dr. Grimesby Roylott.

  “What a quaint method of knocking our country cousins have,” I said. “No wonder they find themselves impoverished. They must spend a fortune on doors.”

  “What are you doing?” Holmes squeaked.

  In truth, I was baiting Dr. Roylott. He was a frightening specimen and I might have lacked the courage, if it were not for the fact that I had my hand resting on the handle of my service revolver. Some men find courage in a bottle, but I keep mine in my coat pocket.

  “Where is my stepdaughter?” Roylott roared. “I know she has been here! Has she been here? Has she?”

  “How should I know? We have not been properly introduced,” I said.

  “Don’t play the fool with me! Where is she? She’s no business with you and you’ve no business with her, do you hear?”

  I smirked and noted, “Look at that silly little top hat, Holmes. Don’t you hate it when country folk put on airs?”

  “Don’t antagonize him, Watson!”

  Yet Roylott was not antagonized; he was thrilled. Though most people shy from conflict, Grimesby Roylott seemed to draw a fierce glee from it. Striding into our sitting room, he looked around for a moment, then walked to the hearth. He drew our poker from its stand. At first I thought he meant to use it as a weapon, but instead he placed one hand at either end and twisted the iron rod into a perfect circle. Holmes squealed. Not content with this show of force, Roylott thrust the center of the new-made ring into his mouth and bit down until the two halves separated and fell, clanging, to the floor. He smiled at us, then turned to spit the section of iron rod that remained in his mouth into the fire and said, “If you come to Stoke Moran… If you come to my house—”

  “I shall certainly endeavor to treat your possessions with more respect than you have shown mine,” I interjected.

  “—you will not escape alive. We in my family do not tolerate interlopers. Is that clear?” He shook his fist at me. It was a monstrously large thing, with bulging veins and knotted knuckles. His hide was spattered with grotesque freckles from which grew tufts of curling red hair.

  “Quite clear,” said I. “Now, is there something we may help you with, or will that be all?”

  He turned on his heel, threw Mrs. Hudson onto our dinner table and strode out through the door. A moment later, we heard the door to Baker Street bang open and I knew he had gone. Mrs. Hudson was not injured (at least, not as much as I secretly hoped she might be), but Holmes seemed quite unhinged.

  “Holmes! Cease that screaming, if you please. You’re giving me a headache.”

  “I don’t like him, Watson!”

  “Neither do I.”

  “You cannot go to Stoke Moran,” Holmes insisted. “Not alone. He’ll kill you, Watson. Can’t you see? He isn’t… He’s not normal.”

  I wanted to protest that all would be well, but the severed halves of our poker argued that Holmes might indeed have a point. If I were caught alone by Roylott, without witnesses and unprotected in his house, what hope would I have?

  “Still… I must go,” I decided.

  “Perhaps we will discuss it further when Mrs. Hudson has gone,” Holmes suggested.

  A moment later, he suggested again, louder this time, “When Mrs. Hudson has gone!”

  She gave him a bitter glance, brushed a few pieces of rubble off her dressing gown, then mumbled something rude about the quality of our guests as it compared with the state of her doors and tottered out.

  “Really, Watson, you mustn’t go alone,” Holmes insisted. “I don’t know what sort of medicine he has been studying, but he has the marks of a man who has made one or two mystical modifications to himself. Such treatments often result in less than beneficial effects to the psyche. If you wish for a second opinion, go to Charing Cross Hospital and consult with my friend Dr. Jekyll on the matter. He can tell you.”

  “No. I believe you, Holmes. Yet, what choice is there? Miss Stoner will be in immediate danger in only a few hours and you are in no state to accompany me. There’s no way we’ll have you fit for an adventure in the time we have.”

  He thought for a moment, then said, “But… try, won’t you? You’re a doctor, after all.”

  I attempted to explain that there was no known procedure for rehabilitating victims of this sort of poisoning, since none had previously survived it. Yet Holmes would not listen and insisted that I endeavor to cure him. I began by flexing the affected limbs (so… all of them). He had no strength and no voluntary control. It was too late for ipecac, so I gave him great quantities of water to flush the toxins from his tissues as best I could. There was no sign of progress whatsoever.

  “This isn’t working, Holmes.”

  “No, it is,” said he. “Why, by the boon that is owed to me by Kh’kath Harh Kugn, I can feel my strength returning.”

  Outside the wind rose to howling force and the horses on the street screamed out all at once.

  “You just cast a spell!” I said.

  “What? Me? No, no, no. There’s no such thing as spells—you said so yourself. Why, it is through the merit of your medical skill that I can now move my fingers again and no other reason.”

  “Holmes, I have asked you not to use your powers! You yourself have told me how detrimental it is to our world every time you do.”

  “Yes, but my sudden improvement is due to your powers, Watson, not mine. It’s not as if I pledge my troth to the fires of Mekzahn Greh-degh for greater life! That is not why I am suddenly able to stand. It’s because you are such a fine doctor. Shall we go?”

  The sky outside grew black as night. The streets filled with the panicked cries of those who rather wondered where the sun had gone off to all of a sudden. By the light of our fire, which flared first blue, then green, I could see Holmes standing by the sofa, looking at me expectantly.

  “Holmes! Damn it!”

  “Think nothing of it, Watson. I have the feeling that compared to any mischief Roylott may work, such transgressions are slight.”

  My protests continued, of course, but there was no sense in going without him. As we stepped out into Baker Street, the light of day was meekly returning as crowds of frantic Londoners ran this way and that.

  * * *

  Stoke Moran was not quite a castle. Dating from the period of the English Civil War, it was one of a particular breed of country homes that were constructed by people with guilty consciences or those who had reason to feel that if the war went one way rather than the other, they could expect a fairly large contingent of armed soldiers to come knocking at any hour. Thus, though it lacked an actual barracks, it did sport a high stone wall of some thickness, crenelated turrets and was positioned at
op a high hill with a commanding view on all sides. It was a home, but it was a defensible one. Thus it did not surprise me that, as Holmes and I approached, Helen Stoner came out to meet us. Anybody watching the road from one of the turret rooms would see visitors more than a mile off.

  “Don’t worry,” she called as she neared. “My stepfather has gone to the city this morning and has not returned. If he was not on your train, he cannot possibly return before the next. We have some time.”

  “We shan’t need much, I warrant,” said I. “Chiefly, I wish to examine Julia’s room and that of Dr. Roylott. Or… I mean… Holmes wishes to examine them.”

  I could have told her that Holmes and I knew perfectly well that Dr. Roylott had been in London, but chose not to alarm her. Holmes gave her a tired smile. Despite the invocations he had applied in our sitting room, he was still weak and unstable. I had allowed him to lean on my arm on the walk from the train station, but I practically had to drag him up the hill on the final approach to Stoke Moran.

  Helen’s, Julia’s and Roylott’s rooms were on the second floor, overlooking the road. Roylott had the corner suite, next to him was Julia Stoner’s old room (where Miss Helen Stoner was supposed to now be lodging) and finally Miss Stoner’s own room, which did not look as if it were undergoing nearly enough work to render it uninhabitable. It was furnished in a manner that bespoke a country estate in decline, but we found no clue of worth.

  Julia Stoner’s room was a different story. Even Holmes, lacking as he was in observational prowess, noted the difference immediately. “It’s a lot nicer than your room,” he said.

  “Holmes! How rude!” I chided.

  Miss Stoner waved me down and said, “Julia’s room was redecorated just after her engagement was announced. We supposed Dr. Roylott did it to curry her favor.”

  “That is not what I suppose,” I mumbled, casting an eye over the room. There were a number of peculiarities, apparent at the most cursory examination. “Miss Stoner, I think you said that your sister complained of the smell of Dr. Roylott’s cigars. Can you see why she might?”