by George Mann
“Agreed,” Holmes replies, looking up.
I follow his gaze but can find no sign of Hyde.
“You too,” Holmes says to the creature, which nods once.
The monster leads us. Parts of the wooden roof are collapsing around us now, and our way back is far from straightforward. A huge burning beam crashes down in our path and we are almost immolated. Our grotesque companion shoves it aside, despite the obvious pain it causes, and I find myself wondering if I have misjudged this poor creature.
“Nearly there,” I hear Holmes say, though I can scarcely see him through the grey pall of smoke that is billowing around us.
Mere paces from the door, we are stopped again by the hulking form of Hyde. The fire has wreaked havoc on his body. His hair is burned off, his skin scorched and blistered. Vengeance and anger fill his eyes, his next actions telegraphed by his posture and obvious demeanour.
The monster intercedes again, catching hold of Hyde and throwing him from our path.
“Now,” it urges us, “flee!’
I have a bullet left in my pistol, and for a fleeting moment consider if it will be any use to the monster in its fight. In the end, the choice is made for me when Holmes grabs my jacket and hauls me, bodily, through the tannery door. My last sight before I turn towards the night and the cold air is of the monster hurling itself towards Hyde, its ragged coat alight.
* * *
Smoke funnels upwards in the night sky, blighting the moon and casting a murky, grey shadow. In it, the tannery burns. Fire engulfs it and the vats cook off in a series of sporadic, slightly muffled explosions.
Sitting on the edge of Greenland Dock, Holmes and I watch the blaze, grateful to be alive.
“Hyde and Jekyll,” I say, coughing up a wad of charcoal-coloured phlegm.
“Jekyll and Hyde,” Holmes ripostes.
“They were one and the same.”
Holmes nods. His face is black from the smoke and soot, and I have never seen him looking quite so dishevelled. I expect I look no better.
“Jekyll possessed the intelligence, Hyde the brawn.”
“So where does Victor Frankenstein fit into all of this?”
Part of the tannery collapses as the flames reach new heights into the London sky.
“We may never find out,” Holmes admits, “but I suspect Jekyll wanted the best of both worlds, Watson. He wanted Hyde, he wanted to capture that brute strength, that power and fortitude, and marry it to his own intellect. Frankenstein’s research was key to that. You saw his earlier attempts at perfecting the formula.”
I am grimly reminded of the bloody remains in Brick Lane, and again in the tannery when Jekyll’s bodyguard and test subject exploded.
“Victor Frankenstein created life from death, Watson,” Holmes went on, “who knows what else he discovered before he died.”
“Now we will never know.”
“Perhaps,” says Holmes, producing his pipe from his inside pocket and lighting up.
“How can you smoke at a time like this?” I ask.
“Can’t think of a better time, Doctor.”
I hear shouts in the distance: Lestrade and his constables come to find out the source of all the commotion.
He arrives shortly afterwards in person, a veritable battalion of officers in his charge.
“When I heard about a fire at Greenland Docs, I had an inkling I’d find you two at the scene,” he says. Behind him, a forlorn John Utterson is being ushered away in handcuffs.
“Well, congratulations, Inspector,” Holmes replies.
Lestrade scowls curiously.
“You’ve had your first inkling,” Holmes tells him, beaming.
Muttering expletives to himself, Inspector Lestrade turns his back on us to direct his men.
“Back to Baker Street then, Watson?” Holmes asks brightly, ineffectually dusting off his soot-smeared jacket and getting to his feet. “We can both have a smoke and warm ourselves by the fire, eh?”
It takes all of my resolve not to show what I think of that suggestion.
Instead, I follow and hope we don’t have far to walk before we can hail a cab.
* * *
In the aftermath of the fire only one body is found, that of Henry Jekyll, returned to his natural form. It is difficult to identify but I insist on performing the autopsy myself. I had hoped we would find them both; to have survived such devastation, surely the monster would be grievously injured.
Despite all of its efforts—it saved mine and Holmes’ lives more than once—I cannot bring myself to think of it as anything but an abomination. As a doctor, I am a man of science and reason. The evidence of my eyes tells me that although it clearly exists, this monstrous creation of Victor Frankenstein is neither scientific nor reasonable.
As I pack my medical bag, the autopsy and my written findings complete, I make haste back to Baker Street. When a rational man is challenged by the irrational, his view of the world is thrown into jeopardy. I think my colleague feels this way too, for so much of his existence is predicated on logic and reason.
Climbing into the back of a black cab, far from comforted by the illusory safety of its walls, I fear one thing is for certain—Sherlock Holmes and I have not seen the last of this creature. Our paths will cross again. I hope to dear God that we are ready when they do.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nick Kyme is an author and editor from Nottingham. He has written several novels and short stories set in the science fiction and fantasy worlds of Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000 for the Black Library, one of which, The Primarchs for the Horus Heresy series, was a New York Times bestseller. His most notable works include the popular Tome of Fire trilogy, and The Fall of Damnos. Most recently, he released the epic fantasy novel The Great Betrayal.
Find him at his website: www.nickkyme.com or follow him on Twitter @NickKyme.
MRS HUDSON AT THE CHRISTMAS HOTEL
BY PAUL MAGRS
From the Journal of Dr John Watson. November, 1925.
This morning I received a rather large envelope postmarked Sussex. Of course I knew at once that it came from my old friend and, sure enough, amongst various yellowing papers and envelopes there was a jar of his finest home-engineered honey, wrapped in a protective bundle of muslin. Holmes’ bees’ honey is a rare treat and a welcome addition to our breakfast table, though my beloved does object to the occasional dead Hymenopteran found suspended in the sticky stuff. Digging deeper in the brown paper parcel proved there to be a further bundle and this was a padded box, such as might contain an item of jewellery. Indeed, inside the box there were two splendid multi-hued crystals. They looked rather like a pair of eyes. I passed them to my beloved wife across the table and she gasped. “Whatever is he doing, entrusting such things to the Royal Mail?”
I couldn’t answer her satisfactorily without first absorbing the import of his note, which was folded neatly underneath these packages. I do enjoy my former colleague-in-adventure’s sporadic missives, touching as they often do upon events in our shared past of which even I am not fully cognisant. It seems that adventures and investigations were going on continuously all around us, and I wasn’t aware of even half of them. His letter of this morning—in rather shakier handwriting than ever, I am afraid—consisted of the following:
* * *
Watson—please find enclosed the latest production of my recalcitrant livestock. Cajole them as I might, they are very slow and perfectionist and what is contained in this jar represents almost a full year of squeezing and cudgeling of their small selves. I trust you will find it delicious. I also enclose the Eyes of Miimon, which belong to the people of Finland. They were smuggled here in the early 1890s by extraordinary means and the manner of their theft is still, I am afraid, a closed book. However, they have recently come to light again and were sent to me by the nieces of one Maude Sturgeon, a deceased spinster from the North Yorkshire coastal town of Whitby. They are a superstitious folk in that part of the islands, and will believe any s
illy piece of nonsense when it comes to matters of black magic and necromancy and so on. The nieces of this elderly, formidable lady—known as the local wise woman, apparently—believe that their ninety-four-year-old aunt was whisked away before her time at the behest of dark forces. (Before her time, I ask you! At the age of ninety-four...!) As you know, I will have no truck with such things as magic and dreadful sentimental drivel about demons and so on, especially at my time of life.
Nevertheless we must respect the beliefs of others—at least, in terms of how those beliefs might lead their owners to behave. Maude Sturgeon, I am informed, fully believed that these jewels are capable of exerting an influence of great evil. They had been in her possession ever since they were smuggled into this country, in 1895—some thirty years ago. Her nieces found them amongst her precious belongings after her demise and they have decided to be rid of them. And so—in their great good wisdom—they have sent them to me. I was appalled to find that Maude Sturgeon never presented the jewels to the authorities three decades ago as she was plainly instructed to, but as you know, I have no faith in the doings of womankind. Especially not the kind of women who instruct their surviving relatives to sprinkle their ashes illegally and unhygenically around a national monument such as the ruined Abbey at Whitby.
Anyhow, I am too old and decrepit to run about the place with supposedly magical crystals. Would you, Watson, please see that they are disposed of correctly? My initial thought was that you should present them to my brother Mycroft, for official restoration to the Finns, who would no doubt be delighted. But then I thought... why not give the things to Professor Challenger, that old charlatan? If they are indeed magical stones—and I know you will guffaw at my entertaining the very idea, old friend—well, at the very least Professor Challenger might squeeze a little entertainment and amusement out of them. As might his new housekeeper, Mrs Hudson. She might even recognise the Eyes of Miimon, and be reminded of an escapade of her own from 1895.
An escapade which the also-enclosed packet of letters and postcards rather chaotically details. They are all addressed to you, my dear Watson, though somehow they have ended up amongst my many jumbled papers and effects.
Do you remember these rather strange communications which we received from Mrs Hudson during her holiday in the early summer of 1895? We both thought—as we read each one during our breakfasts at 221b—that our absent housekeeper was losing her mind.
Well, perhaps not. There is certainly something very odd about these twin jewels from Finland. Do you not find they give off a rather odd vibration? Don’t they make you feel that there might actually be something in the superstitions of the wild north-easterners?
With great affection,
Holmes
June 15th, 1895
Whitby; The Royal Crescent, The West Cliff
Dear Dr Watson,
Now I hope you two sillies are seeing to yourselves properly. I put some nice jam on the kitchen counter, did you see? For breakfast. Damson. Home-made. I won’t be away for more than a week. My sister Nellie could never put up with me for longer than that. Today we have had a trip out to Scarborough, where folk go to take the waters. I much prefer the quieter seafront here in Whitby, though. Far more civilised than all that hullaballoo further down the coast. Here, life is much more sedate and genteel. As you yourself told me, Doctor, my nerves need soothing, rather than exciting further. Frazzled and malcontent, I think were the words you used to describe my recent moods. How your epithets rang in my ears when you left me on the station platform on Monday morning.
Anyhow, relax I must, the good Doctor tells me. To that end Nellie and I have been enjoying rather lazy days strolling about the intricate streets of this town, on both sides of the harbour. During yesterday’s rather gusty afternoon we even took a bracing walk up the 199 steps to the old, broken-down Abbey I am sure you approve of a little light exertion, though I must admit my legs were trembling this morning. Not that either of you wish to hear of my sundry complaints, of course. As far as the pair of you are concerned, all I ever do is run up and down staircases.
This evening we attend a special musical evening at one of the grander hotels on the West Cliff. Nellie has promised an evening of wonderment and enchantment. Nellie often exaggerates, though I must say, Whitby thus far is everything she has been promising me. Do you know this neck of the woods, Doctor?
I do hope all is peaceful at home. The two of you are, I imagine, embroiled in one of your dreadful investigations. I am sure ruffians of all kinds will be tracking muck up and down my stair carpets. I would not dream of asking a man of your elevation to run around with the ewbank, Dr Watson, but you would lighten my load considerably if you could manage it.
Now, please give Himself my warmest good wishes, and do save some for yourself.
Oh—the picture on the reverse shows the ruined Abbey and St Mary’s Church, at the summit of the winding upward slope of 199 steps which Nellie and I doughtily tackled yesterday. You will be amused to note that, from this elevation, the stairs describe a reversed question mark upon the face of the steep, grassy cliff. Mysteries everywhere, you see.
Yours,
Mrs Hudson
Dear Dr Watson,
As you know I practise moderation in all things and I hardly ever touch a drop of alcohol, and so I don’t know quite what came over me last night at the Christmas Hotel. There was, I think, a feverish and hysterical atmosphere about the place, and a sense that things were running ever so slightly amok.
Nellie and I arrived for dinner at the grand, imposing edifice of the one-hundred-year-old hotel and I admit to marvelling at its palatial splendour. It was painted pink and its windows were lit up charmingly with golden light. Inside, however, it was clear that all the guests were awash with the party spirit. There was dancing and hectic activity in every direction one cared to look. We found a foyer trimmed with every kind of gaudy Christmas decoration and barely room between flushed and overdressed guests to manouevre ourselves. As you know, my sister is lame and rather short, and so we had something of a trial, scuffling past the vast Scots fir and making for the ballroom at the far end of the first floor.
Nellie had already explained that the owner of the Christmas Hotel went in for these festive excesses all the year round. This was how she and her customers liked it. I found it all a bit much for a warm night in June. I did think it possibly irreligious, too.
Things are different in the north, as we both well know, Doctor, and though I should have turned on my heel and quit the Christmas Hotel at once, I felt I ought to linger a little for poor Nellie’s sake. I don’t believe she gets out much on her own, being as disfigured and generally malformed as she is.
Having said that, I was astonished that Nellie didn’t seem perturbed by the abandonment and revelry all about us. It was a kind of cross between a rough Parisian dance hall and scenes from Bedlam. In fact, as she led the way into the ballroom, I realised that she seemed quite eager to take part in the dancing and the various hijinks in evidence.
Here there was a band, all the members of which were attired in green and scarlet outfits befitting of some species of pixie or elf. The music they were playing seemed unearthly and vulgar to my affronted ears.
Nellie must have noticed the expression on my face, for she turned to me, laughing. How strange, I thought, to see her so unselfconscious. Laughing, like this, in public. She must indeed feel at home here in this insalubrious place. Under the glittering lights of the ballroom her makeup seemed horribly garish and there were points of light dancing nastily in her single eye.
“The mistress wants to meet you,” she told me.
I was duly introduced to the proprietress of this extraordinary establishment. It was a vast, blousy female form that came shunting towards us, her bloated body surmounting a kind of mechanised bath chair. Her revolting gown revealed a surplus of powdered bosom, and broken veins crisscrossed her face like contour lines on the Ordnance Survey Map for this part of North Yorkshir
e.
She cackled at me, “I am Mrs Claus,” and the force of her breath was vile. She reeked like a pudding hot with flaming sauce and I took against her at once. “I feel honoured to meet poor Nellie’s infamous sister.”
“Infamous?” snapped I. As you know, Doctor, I do try not to be short with folk. But the fatuous remarks of others sometimes make it impossible for me not to snap at them.
“Oh, certainly. We all know who you work for, dear, and we’re all very impressed. We keep up to date with his exploits through the scribblings of the good Dr Watson. We aren’t so remote from the metropolis that we aren’t bang up to the minute on unspeakable crimes in the south.”
What a coarse way of referring to your various literary productions, Dr Watson! Suddenly, I felt exposed before this heinous female in this parochial pleasure parlour. I felt as if our entire lives had been laid bare. In that moment I knew that no matter that her hotel was geared to continuous celebration of the birth of our Saviour, there was an unholy stink of corruption about it and also about the occupant of that steam-driven bath chair.
Such was the extent of our discourse last evening, for Nellie swiftly dragged me away to sample the Christmas punch, which was being dispensed from a crystal bowl by another pair of waiters decked out as elves. We drank, and then we danced. Gentlemen gallantly offered themselves. We whirled about under lights to music I had never heard before. We made several return visits to the bottomless tureen of that delicious brew. We slaked our thirsts after our exertions and I marvelled again at Nellie’s fleet-footedness on the floor. Never had I seen her less ungainly, with her clubfoot banging the sprung floor in perfect time. I think we both imbibed a little more of the heavenly beverage than we ought to have done.
Luckily, Nellie’s compact cottage isn’t far from the Christmas Hotel. We tottered easily down a few back alleys when it was time to drag ourselves away.
