Sherlock Holmes vs. Cthulhu

by Lois H. Gresh

  He wants me to help you, Caroline, I thought. The Doctor commands that I help you. Help you, dear, help you…

  In that moment, my decision was clear. I would help Caroline Brown in the only way I knew how. Then, come morning, Dr. Sinclair would no longer have to pity her. He would no longer feel that he’d failed her. I would save her—for the Doctor.

  Creeping down to the nurses’ station, I obtained what I needed. Then I slipped back into the dark hall and padded quietly back to Room 18.

  I twisted the knob. It turned easily, and silently.

  Entering the room, I was engulfed in total darkness, for in here, there was no light, but for the faintest of glimmers from the nurses’ gas lamp down the hall. I blinked until my eyes adjusted to the black. And there, to the left, I saw the dim outline of a bed: dark gray on black. A figure heaved up and down, snoring and wheezing. Mrs. van der Kolk. I turned to the right-hand bed and saw the outline of another figure, this one slim, tiny like a child, and quiet. Caroline.

  Not such a child, are you? I thought. You, with your seventeen-year-old breasts and legs, your angelic face, your high cheekbones and blue eyes topped with golden hair. You are everything I wanted to be when I was your age.

  Instead, I had lived on the street, filthy, starving, and sinfully ugly. I could only imagine the favors I would have been granted, the food I would have been given, the perfumes, the shoes, the warm coats, the adoration, hugs, kisses, and more…

  Had I just looked like you, Caroline.

  From the pocket of my uniform, I removed the hypodermic needle and the vial.

  Don’t worry, dear. It will be quick.

  Mercy.

  Patience.

  Service.

  I was a good nurse.

  I stroked her hair. It was long and silky. I knelt by her bed and smelled her hair: fragrant, even in this pit they called the Whitechapel Lunatic Asylum. I stroked her cheek, soft, and her neck, also soft.

  Then I almost laughed. How amusing, I thought, that Caroline thinks she is Joan of Arc, one of the strongest and most forceful women in history. Joan had led men into battle, had crushed the enemies of her king. But in the end, poor Joan had been captured, tried for witchcraft and heresy, and she’d been burned at the stake when she was but two years older than Caroline herself.

  Sorry, Caroline, dear, but you won’t be named a patron saint of anywhere. You are not Joan of Arc. You are a simpleton. A lunatic. A sad and deranged girl with no future.

  I felt the inside of her arm by the elbow. We injected these patients on a daily basis. There, I found the nub where we dosed Caroline to calm her down and put her to sleep.

  On the bed, she spasmed slightly, rolled to her back. I thought I saw her eyes flutter open, but only for a moment.

  I’d better make this quick.

  With my long years of practice, it took no time at all to fill the needle and inject the drug into Caroline’s arm.

  No more suffering, dear. It’s all over now. You can rest easy, for there’ll be no tomorrow for you to worry over.

  She grunted, and briefly, her arm twisted and tensed. Her body stiffened, then relaxed.

  I placed my ear on her right breast—lucky girl, you are indeed perfectly formed—and listened to her heart beating. I could feel her lungs gently filling, lifting her breast ever so slightly.

  Beat, beat, beat…

  Breath, breath, breath…

  Beat. A long pause. Breath. A long pause.

  And now: nothing.

  I stroked her hair and cheek again, kissed her forehead, and tucked her in as I would a toddler.

  I love you, Caroline. You’re safe from pain and harm now. Dr. Sinclair will never touch you. And it won’t hurt him to see you suffer so. I love you, Doctor. I did this for you, Doctor.

  I would have made such a good mother. It was a shame I was past the age of bearing children.

  My heart swelled. I am so kind, good, and dedicated.

  I slid the needle and empty vial into my pocket, and as I rose to leave, saw something out of the corner of my eye: Willie Jacobs. He’d been in the hall outside the door. Had he seen? Had he seen what I’d done?

  I darted to the door, snicked it shut behind me, and peered down the long hallway. The door to Room 5 was closed. Nobody was in the hall.

  Had I imagined Willie Jacobs? Was the night playing tricks on me?

  I padded to the nurses’ station and disposed of the used needle and empty vial. The clock gently ticked. Three chimes told me it was 3 a.m.

  Willie Jacobs was insane and dying.

  Did it really matter what he’d seen or not seen? Did it really matter whether he lived or died?

  26

  DR. JOHN WATSON

  London

  During the day, the smoking room of the Diogenes Club was devoid of all but the most elderly men. Even those wealthy or clever enough to avoid work did not lounge in the club until shortly before the supper hour.

  In fact, everyone in the room appeared at least twice my age, if not older. I’d never met my grandfathers, and looking around now, I wondered if any of these gentlemen resembled my kin in any way. Grumpy, scowling, sporting a cane and a twirling mustache? Bald, dressed in a dapper fashion, trim and debonair, preferring which newspaper—the London Daily News or the Morning Post?

  I beckoned to the impeccably groomed butler, holding up the note I had composed. His refined dignity reminded me of Pontose, whose master Lord Wiltshram had been murdered during our adventure in Avebury. Stiff and formal, Pontose had served Wiltshram while privately loathing the latter’s occupation as a leader of the Order of Dagon. After the murder, traumatized, Pontose had disappeared. But poise was the only similarity between the two men. This fellow before me now was taller than Pontose, and his face was more narrow with a fat nose that looked oddly out of place on it.

  I placed a note for Sherlock Holmes on his silver tray, and the butler bowed slightly then swiveled like a Queen’s Guard on parade and walked toward the door leading to the back rooms.

  Without Holmes, the rooms at Baker Street felt as empty and silent as the Diogenes Club. No, that wasn’t true, his lodgings weren’t as quiet as it was here, for there I had the company of Mrs. Hudson, flitting about, stuffing me with home-cooked meals and biscuits, worrying incessantly about Holmes’s well-being.

  Still, it didn’t feel quite right to occupy the place without Holmes present. I dared not touch his violin, his chemistry equipment, the papers he’d strewn all over the sitting room. Everything awaited his return.

  Someone touched my shoulder. I turned, smiling broadly, but my smile faded for a moment when I realized it wasn’t Holmes.

  “Inspector Lestrade,” I said, offering my hand. “I am delighted to see you.”

  While he shook my hand, his eyes darted around the room.

  I fear my face reddened, for in the surprise of the moment, I’d forgotten that we were in the Diogenes, where speaking was considered a criminal act.

  Wordlessly, I mouthed “sorry, sorry” to the elderly members who glared at me before returning to their perusal of the morning papers.

  Flustered but motioning to Lestrade to sit, I flipped my tails back, sat in my wing chair, and crossed my legs, hoping to recover my dignity. Lestrade was impatient, jittery, quivering in his chair and nervously fingering the armrests. His eyes continued to dart around the room. This case, with creatures in the Thames and all of London seemingly afflicted with mental conditions, had unnerved him.

  The fire crackled. Several men in the surrounding leather seats jumped, glared at the fire, and then returned to their papers.

  The library door silently swung open, and Sherlock Holmes stepped into the smoking room. The thick rug muffled any noise his shoes might have made. Upon reaching us, his eyes twinkled and he smiled warmly. It was a fine thing to see him, I must say, and I sprang up to return his greeting, thinking perhaps Holmes missed me as much as I missed him. Certainly, his good cheer could not be explained by the p
resence of Lestrade.

  He motioned at us to follow him to the Stranger’s Room, where we could talk, and once again, I found myself perched on the splintered stool by the window. Holmes settled into the Gothic chair, slouched down, and crossed his legs at the ankles, leaving Lestrade to sit in the large chair previously occupied by Mycroft.

  “And now,” Holmes said, “let us get to the matter at hand.”

  “Which is?” I asked.

  “Mr. Holmes called us here,” Lestrade piped up, “because he wants the Yard’s help in obtaining farm animals.”

  “What?” I exclaimed. “What is this, Holmes?”

  “Relax, Doctor. The Inspector is playing the dramatist.”

  Lestrade glowered at him.

  “No drama about it,” he said, “for you told me yourself, Mr. Holmes, that you wanted to discuss the procurement of domesticated animals.” The Inspector turned to me, his short body twitching with anxiety. “Dr. Watson, for the life of me, I don’t know what he wants, but I am so perplexed by what has afflicted London that I will take help at any corner.”

  “And so, Holmes,” I asked, “what do you have in mind?”

  Holmes drew himself up in the uncomfortable chair and winced.

  “I must talk to Mycroft about the furnishings of this room,” he said. “I know the club discourages visitors, but for those of us who are forced to entertain others here, certainly the club can provide more comfortable chairs.” His brow creased, then he trained his eyes on me.

  “My dear friend, I encourage you to take more rest. You are evidently exhausted.” Seeing my surprise, he quickly added, “I don’t mean to upset you. I am concerned. Do you still feel dazed, or has your head cleared?”

  “I am fine, merely suffering at being apart from Mary and Samuel,” I said, though I was not fine at all. As it did—more and more often now—my vision had blurred. Wisps of symbols and colors floated in the air. I could not trust my own eyes, and I would never admit to anyone, not even Holmes, how worried I was about my mental condition. “What is this about farm animals?”

  “I asked Lestrade to join us here because I need brain tissues from creatures that are yet alive. Although the tissue will no longer be functioning normally after removal, we may yet see processes or structures that no longer appear after a creature is long dead.

  “For example,” he continued, “you may not know that when we first met I was in the process of testing how far bodies could bruise after death. If skin cells continue functioning for a short time, might not brain cells do the same? I contacted Lestrade and requested his help in this matter.”

  “Yes,” Lestrade murmured, “yes, you did. You see, Dr. Watson, Holmes is worried that, should you and he vivisect a farm animal without a license, we might prosecute and jail you both. Is that correct, Mr. Holmes?”

  “It is not,” Holmes said curtly. “Vivisection is not an easy skill, and I do not know of any surgeon in England who has the requisite skills for performing such a delicate and dangerous task on livestock. I mean to study the cells after death, Inspector, not before—but as close to the point of death as possible. I have seen reports of livestock showing unusual neurological symptoms. Where can I obtain fresh brain tissue from such an animal?”

  “You refer to animals afflicted with the same condition we have seen in humans in Whitechapel?” I asked. “But how do you know that there are farm animals with such an affliction?”

  “Simple, Watson. Lestrade, please, show the good doctor the news clippings, will you?”

  “Certainly.” Lestrade pulled a small sheaf of folded clippings from his coat pocket and thrust them at me.

  “Why, these are from Avebury,” I said in surprise. The same place Holmes and I had risked our lives to root out the Order of Dagon. We’d attended a deadly performance of the opera, Norma, and infiltrated the mansion of Dagon leader Professor Fitzgerald. It did not thrill me that strange occurrences yet emanated from Avebury.

  “Sheep and cows grazing in the Avebury meadows have been slamming into fences, crying out non-stop,” Lestrade told me. “When approached by humans, the animals grow violent, and their eyes whirl. Several farmers, risking economic ruin and the possible starvation of their families, have shot their own animals, fearing an outbreak of the infection.”

  Holmes frowned. “I think these farmers might be inclined to allow us, Doctor, to take tissue samples from these poor animals, but I don’t want to be captured in the act and accused of criminal activity. The voices of anti-vivisectionists have grown strong.”

  “You have authorized us to obtain the brain tissues?” I asked the Inspector.

  “I have arranged for others to authorize it for you,” he nodded, “as the matter is considered serious. The Yard won’t risk doing something as peculiar as what Mr. Holmes proposes ourselves, but, sir,” he turned to Holmes, “we know you well enough to trust your judgment.”

  It was a high compliment, indeed. While Holmes often helped Lestrade solve his cases, he rarely wanted Lestrade’s thanks or admiration. These were not motivating forces behind Holmes’s pursuit of truth in matters of crime. Rather, he felt compelled to solve mysteries and puzzles that nobody else could.

  Lestrade supplied us with signed documents.

  “Present these to Mr. Gerald Waltham,” he said, “at the location indicated on the attached map. Waltham fears bankruptcy. His flock of sheep now races around his fields like a pack of mad dogs. He is expecting you.”

  Holmes jumped up.

  “Then there’s no time to waste. Shall we, Doctor?”

  “One moment, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade. “The note you sent asking me to come here also asked me to look into a Bligh Braithwaite.”

  “That’s correct,” said Holmes. “Watson, you remember that was the name of Sinclair’s new patient.”

  Lestrade went on, “We’ve found no connection between Braithwaite and those names you mentioned. Not Fitzgerald, nor Ashberton, Wiltshram, Pontose, Jacobs, Beiler. Not Reginald Sinclair, nor Clara Klune, nor Amy Switzer—aside from the asylum connection between those last three and Willie Jacobs, that is. But the funny thing is that the Kandinsky Asylum has been asking Sinclair to send Braithwaite back to them ever since he was found.”

  “Braithwaite has not come up in our investigation, Holmes. Why ever did you ask about him?” I asked.

  “Braithwaite showed up under peculiar circumstances and was admitted to the Whitechapel Lunatic Asylum despite their lack of available rooms. They regularly turn away sick people, even those who sleep on the reception room floor and beg for admittance. So why, I wonder, did the asylum admit Bligh Braithwaite so readily?”

  27

  PROFESSOR MORIARTY

  Half Moon Bay

  I’d extracted as much information as I was going to get out of Amelia Scarcliffe—at least, for now. Down four agents, I’d been forced to send her to London with Michael. Perhaps some time spent in the squalor of Whitechapel would bring her round to the idea of becoming my informant.

  Archibald galloped ahead of me on the path leading through the woods—inland but parallel to the coast. We’d rustled two horses from their sleeping owners and galloped far from Half Moon Bay at as fast a pace as the animals could manage.

  The farther we rode, the sparser grew the mistletoe, the less vibrant the colors of the tree bark, the dead leaves, the evergreens.

  Archibald’s horse crashed through the brush ahead. It was a fine creature, and hardy, which was just as well, since Archibald was tall and built like a heavyweight champion. He had a strong future, this Archibald. He was brash and intelligent, with a cocky swagger, hard glinting eyes, a face scarred by knife fights. Now was his chance to prove himself.

  The kidnapping of Maria Fitzgerald would be a reasonable step in that direction. We hadn’t found her anywhere at Half Moon Bay, but Archibald had told me there was only one orphanage in the area.

  My horse slowed, ears back, flanks heaving. I kicked it into a reluctant canter, but I had
lost Archibald. This was not the place to fail on me. The land north-west of Half Moon Bay was sparsely populated; there were few resting places for two kidnappers. If I could steal another horse, I’d get rid of this one. It was too weak for my taste—unless cooked in a nice stew with potatoes.

  Eventually, the trail widened and opened into a village made up of a few cottages set among the trees. Archibald had already dismounted; he flagged me to do the same.

  “Horses need water,” he said, pulling a cigarette from an inner pocket and striking a match on his shoe. His voice was gruff from incessant smoking. He cleared his throat and spat, then sucked hard on the cigarette so the tip glowed brightly and melted back a quarter inch. He held the smoke in his lungs and eyed me, as if appraising me.

  “You agree?” he said in a cloud of exhaled smoke.

  I didn’t want to stop, and I didn’t care about the horses and their need for water. But we hadn’t seen any other horses for a long time, and I didn’t want mine to drop dead under me—not without a replacement handy.

  So I nodded and gave him a quick but cold smile.

  “As you say, Archibald. Water it is. But I see no cattle trough here—only a well without a bucket. Come on, let’s knock on this cottage door and make our request for a bucket or two of water.”

  “Aye, sir.” His lips did not break into a smile, and I liked that—his purely professional attitude.

  We tied our horses to trees, and he tossed down his cigarette and ground it out. We crunched over pine needles and twigs toward the nearest cottage.

  “How are you gonna calm down this Scarcliffe woman?” Archibald caught me looking at him and quickly pulled his gaze away.

  Good. He was afraid of me.

  Sometimes, it was best to keep one’s strongest men on the tightest leashes. Keep them closest, for they were the ones with the ambition and intellect to attempt a coup.

  “I know how to charm a woman,” I answered, “any woman.”

  “She was screaming, boss, and more violent than the ugliest street walker.”