Death by Gaslight

by Michael Kurland

  “Nonsense,” said Holmes, sitting up and swinging his spindly legs over the side of the bed. “Where are my clothes? And, incidentally, who undressed me?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” the doctor said. “But your clothes are there, on that chair. Now at least sit still for a minute and let me take a look at you.” He peered into Holmes’s right eye, and then the left. “Look to each side,” he said. “Very good. Pupils seem normal. Coordination is fine. Tell me, do you know where you are?”

  “My dear doctor,” Holmes said, pushing himself to his feet, “I am not suffering from mental confusion, or aphasia, or amnesia, or anything else save a severe headache and a powerful need to be on my way.” He weaved back and forth, and almost fell forward, but was saved by Dr. Breckstone, who grabbed his arm and helped him sit back down on the bed. “Well, perhaps I am a bit wobbly,” Holmes admitted. “But I’ll be fine in a few minutes. Again, I thank you very much for your efforts. You may send me a bill, of course.”

  “There’ll be no bill. Professor Moriarty is taking care of that,” Breckstone said. “If you are determined to leave, then please dress yourself and walk about the house for fifteen or twenty minutes before you go. That will give a subdural hematoma, or whatever else may be lurking inside your skull, a chance to make itself known while I’m still here to do something about it.”

  Holmes rubbed his head above the left ear. “As you say, Doctor,” he agreed grudgingly. “I need some time to think in any case. I’ll find a room in which to pace back and forth for the next twenty minutes and smoke a pipeful of shag. I always do my best thinking when I’m pacing back and forth.”

  “I shall go tell Professor Moriarty that you’re conscious,” Breckstone said. “If you feel the slightest touch of vertigo or nausea, let me know immediately.”

  Half an hour later Holmes appeared in the doorway to Moriarty’s study. “I apologize for any inconvenience, Professor,” he said. “And I thank you for providing medical attention.”

  “Someone tried to kill you, Holmes,” Moriarty said, peering down from the high shelf where he was sorting through a collection of large astronomical atlases. He selected one and climbed down from the stepladder with it under his arm.

  “I am aware of that,” Holmes said. “I must confess, Professor, that for a moment I was surprised to wake up in this house.”

  Moriarty regarded Holmes thoughtfully as he went over to his desk and set down the massive atlas. “Surprised that I took you in, or surprised that I allowed you to wake up?” He smiled. “A bit of both, I expect.”

  Holmes glared at him and walked stiffly over to the desk. “I am surprised that you didn’t take the opportunity to dispose of this statuette,” he said. “And now I’m afraid that both I and it must be on our way.” He snatched the bronze statuette from the corner of the desk and stalked from the room.

  “Take care, Holmes!” Moriarty called to the detective’s retreating back. “There seems to be something about you that brings out murderous impulses in total strangers; so you can imagine how your friends feel.” He chuckled at the sound of the front door slamming, and then went into the hall to make sure that Holmes had really left. Returning to his desk, Moriarty immersed himself in the dusty pleasures of the well-worn astronomical atlas, determined to get a few hours’ research done before Barnett or one of Colonel Moran’s minions returned with a report that would bring him back to this world.

  While studying the columns of figures that interested him in the astronomical atlas, Moriarty was suddenly put in mind of another set of figures, and he pulled the Scotland Yard file from his desk and searched through it intently for the copy of the newspaper fragment that had been found on Lord Walbine’s person when he was killed. Then he went over to a locked cabinet and removed a variety of maps, charts, and atlases of the London area and spread them open on his desk.

  After performing cabalistic rituals over each of the maps with a ruler and a piece of string, Moriarty rang for Mr. Maws and had him go to the basement and retrieve the stack of daily papers for the last three months. Then he closed the door to the study and left word that he didn’t want to be disturbed for anything but the most urgent news.

  It was Barnett who disturbed him. At two o’clock in the morning Barnett burst through the front door, slammed into the study, and almost did a jig to Moriarty’s desk. “I have your killer!” he announced, grinning broadly and waving an olive-colored envelope in front of him.

  Moriarty looked up from the vast mound of books, charts, note pads, newspapers, and assorted drawing and measuring materials that now covered his desk top. “Where?” he asked.

  “Well, I don’t know where he is, yet, Professor; but I know who he is. And I have a pretty good idea of why he’s doing it.” The elated expression suddenly left Barnett’s face, and he wearily shook his head. “Which is wonderful, I suppose, after all this time—a hell of a scoop, and all that. The only thing is, Cecily is still missing, and I don’t see how this gets me any closer to finding her.”

  “I believe they are related problems,” Moriarty said. He tapped the pile of charts and newspapers with a pencil. “And I believe I can find the young lady.”

  “You’re jesting!” Barnett exclaimed.

  “I assure you, I would never jest about a thing like that,” Moriarty said. “I am quite serious. But first tell me about the murderer.”

  “He’ll keep,” Barnett said. “I mean—I’m sorry, Professor, but if you know where Cecily is—”

  Moriarty laced his hands together and leaned back in his chair. “It is only a supposition at the moment,” he said. “It remains to be confirmed.”

  “Well, if you think you know even where Cecily might be, if there’s a one-in-ten chance, or a one-in-a-hundred chance, give me the address,” Barnett said, leaning over the desk and speaking with an unaccustomed intensity. “I’ll confirm it in very short order, believe me!”

  Moriarty shook his head. “I’m sorry, Barnett. I didn’t mean to raise your expectations to quite the fever pitch. It will take a bit more research and investigation before we can establish the present whereabouts of the young lady; and that depends upon my being right about who has taken her and where. But the logic is consistent, and I’m confident that we will find her, and before this newborn day is out. I have the key, but I’m not yet sure that I have the right lock.”

  Barnett sat back down in the chair facing the desk. “I don’t follow that,” he said.

  “I shall explain,” Moriarty assured him. “But first, tell me what you have found out about the murderer. Who is he, and why is he doing this? I assume by your attitude that you are fairly sure of your facts.”

  “I would say so,” Barnett agreed. “You were right, Professor, which I’m sure doesn’t surprise you. The man is a professional magician—an escape artist. Calls himself Professor Chardino—the Invisible Man.”

  “Very apt, considering what we know of his abilities,” Moriarty commented. “What makes you pick out this one magician from the scores of performers that must be active on the stage today?”

  Barnett tossed the olive envelope he was holding onto the large chart of Greater London covering one side of Moriarty’s desk. “I won’t bother telling you what attracted me to him in the first place,” he said. “Let me just put it that his name quickly led to all the rest. And when I looked for confirmation, all the pieces fell into place as if they were waiting for me to stumble across them. First of all, he has disappeared from view, moved from his usual theatrical rooming house, and refused any offers of work for the past four months, even though he is in great demand. His daughter—”

  “Ah!” Moriarty interrupted. “That’s interesting. He has a daughter!”

  “He had a daughter. Annie. About eighteen years old. She died on the seventh of January in mysterious circumstances.”

  “Fascinating!” Moriarty said. “Go on—in what way were these circumstances mysterious?”

  “The death is officially listed as the result
of ‘injuries received in a street accident.’ Supposedly, she was thrown from a carriage. But from the description of the attending physician, whom I happened to find on duty in the emergency room of St. Luke’s, it appears the girl was probably tortured. And over a period of several days. The physician didn’t want to come right out and say it, since he had no way to prove it, and he could get into considerable trouble if he was wrong. But that’s clearly what he meant.”

  “You have indeed been busy, Barnett,” Moriarty said. “Anything else?”

  “On some obscure impulse, I went to the graveyard where the daughter is buried. I think the idea at the back of my mind was to see if I could get an address for the professor from the sexton—that’s what the fellow who keeps the graves is called, isn’t it?”

  “Usually,” Moriarty agreed. “It’s also the name of a beetle of the genus Necrophorus. Go on.”

  “Yes, well, I was assuming that Professor Chardino might visit his daughter’s grave occasionally.”

  “And leave his card?”

  Barnett shrugged. “He might leave something. Perhaps flowers, which could then be traced back to the florist by someone with the deductive genius of a Professor James Moriarty.”

  “Did he?”

  “As it happens, he did. Unfortunately, by the evidence of the sexton, who, come to think of it, did look a little like a beetle, they were always purchased from a florist right down the street. A little outdoor stand.”

  “Pity,” Moriarty said. “And no card with the sexton?”

  “No,” Barnett said. “But”—he waved his hand at the olive envelope—“he did leave something else!”

  Moriarty reached for the envelope and tore it open. “Well,” he said, sliding the contents onto the one clear spot on the desk. “What’s this?” He picked up the two small objects that had been in the envelope and examined them closely, comparing one with the other. “Identical medallions, except for such differences as one would expect from wear and handling, and for a tiny hole drilled at the top of one. Presumably for the link of a gold chain, as the medallions themselves would seem to be gold.”

  “That’s it, Professor,” Barnett said, smiling. “I think those are what you’ve been looking for.”

  “What Holmes had been looking for,” Moriarty said. “I have no doubt. Exactly where did you find them?”

  “At the gravesite, buried in the dirt.”

  “Ah. And what prompted you to look in the dirt?”

  “The sexton. He told me that Chardino used to sit by the grave for long periods of time, talking to his daughter. And he thought that Chardino occasionally left things there besides the flowers. ‘Trinkets,’ he called them. So I looked, and I found two.”

  “You did indeed. Curious things, these.” Moriarty hefted the two medallions in his hand. “They tell the whole story—and a horrible story it is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This sigil has an interesting history,” Moriarty said. “Oh, not these particular baubles, of course; but the design, the pattern, the notion behind it. It explains all to one who understands such things.”

  “And you do?”

  “Indeed,” Moriarty said. “As you know, I have always been interested in the obscure, the bizarre, the esoteric—the darker recesses of the human mind. I have seen you, on occasion, perusing my collection of books on these subjects.”

  “What has this to do with that?” Barnett asked.

  “I will explain,” Moriarty said. “Let us examine these medallions. On the obverse: a satanic figure, legs wide, arms akimbo, staring out at the observer. Around the figure, evenly spaced, the letters D C L X V I. On the reverse”—Moriarty flipped over the medallion—“a floral design twined about the tracery letters H C. Do you agree?”

  Barnett, who had picked up the other medallion, examined it closely and nodded. “That’s what it looks like to me,” he said.

  “Let us take it from front to back,” said Moriarty, holding his medallion up to the light of the desk lamp and examining it through a small lens. “The pleasant-looking figure glaring out at you is a chap named Azazel, leader of the Sleepless Ones.”

  “The Sleepless Ones?”

  “That’s right. The symbolism is very interesting. The story is in Genesis, in an abbreviated form.” Moriarty stretched his hand behind him for an old black leather-bound Bible, and opened it. “Here it is: Genesis Six: ‘And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto them, That the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose.

  “‘And the Lord said, My spirit shall not always strive with man, for that he also is flesh: yet his days shall be an hundred and twenty years.

  “‘There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.

  “‘And God saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that the whole imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually.’”

  Moriarty closed the book. “Right after that God asks Noah to build himself an ark.”

  “I’m sorry, Professor, but I don’t follow any of that,” Barnett said. “I never really paid much attention in Sunday school.”

  “Let me expand on it for you,” Moriarty said. “And I assure you, that they did not teach you this in Sunday school. The old myths sometimes tell us a surprising amount about the human unconscious. The ‘sons of God’ were angels; specifically in this tale a group of angels known as the Sleepless Ones, whose particular job it was to watch over men.”

  “Headed by this fellow,” Barnett said, tapping the medallion. “Azazel.”

  “Correct. Now, these Sleepless Ones observed the ‘daughters of men,’ and they liked what they saw. They lusted after these beautiful human women, and so eventually they came down and married them.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Angels, I would imagine, can be very persuasive. But since they were angels, their children were not human children, but the Nephilim, or giants. And these giants were unruly children. Wait a second.” Moriarty went over to a bookcase and ran his fingers along the spines of the books. “Here’s the one. The whole story is in the Book of Enoch. A different, and longer, version of the story from that in Genesis. ‘And it came to pass when the children of men had multiplied that in those days were born unto them beautiful and comely daughters. And the angels, the children of heaven, saw and lusted after them, and said to one another: Come, let us choose wives from among the children of men and beget us children.’”

  Moriarty ran his finger down the page. “Here’s more; now we get to the giants: ‘And when men could no longer sustain them, the giants turned against them and devoured mankind, and they began to sin against birds and beasts and reptiles and fish, and to devour one another’s flesh and to drink the blood.’” Moriarty closed the book. “This, according to one legend, was the origin of evil on the earth.”

  Barnett thought this over. “That’s interesting,” he said, “even fascinating, but what relevance does an ancient legend have on what is happening today?”

  “Think of it this way, Barnett. What sort of people would choose to use Azazel, the progenitor of evil, as their symbol? What do they say about themselves? They are either fools, or knaves, or—they are evil!”

  “Evil.” Barnett stared down at the medallion he held. “It is a term that doesn’t seem to have direct relevance anymore, not to this day and age; but you make it seem to come alive.”

  “They make it come alive, not I. Any man who does not believe in the existence of evil—pure, deliberate, virgin evil—or who believes it to be a thing of the past is not truly aware of the world in which he lives. But the evil, my friend, is within us. We need no Azazel to bring it to life.”

  “What of these letters around the rim of the medallion?” Barnet
t asked.

  “There is, indeed, the other half of the story,” Moriarty said. “Think of the letters as Roman numbers: D C L X V I. Six hundred and sixty-six.”

  Barnett looked blank. “So?”

  “The answer to that is, once again, in the Bible—this time in the Book of Revelation.” Moriarty flipped through the last few pages of his Bible. “Here it is—Chapter Thirteen:

  “‘And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy.’

  “And then, at the end of the chapter, after describing how evil the beast is: ‘Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast:—for it is the number of a man; and his number is six hundred threescore and six.’”

  “What does it mean?” Barnett asked.

  “Nobody is sure,” Moriarty said. “The Book of Revelation is by far the most obscure book of the Bible. The most usual belief is that it somehow represents the anti-Christ through some cabalistic numbering code.”

  Barnett leaned back and stared at his medallion, considering the sort of people who would favor this particular symbolism on their watch fobs. He found that he was weary from his day’s exertions but still eager to go on. “What’s on the back?” he asked.

  Moriarty flipped over the medallion he was holding. “The flowers traced around the letters are Veratrum, commonly called hellebore. In ancient times it was believed to cure madness, and the soothsayer and physician Melampus is supposed to have used it to cure the mad daughters of Praetus, King of Argos.”

  “You seem to know an awful lot about these medallions, Professor,” Barnett said. “I am aware that you have a most impressive store of esoteric knowledge. Many’s the time you’ve told me that there is no bit of information that is not worth knowing. But this approaches prescience. Have you ever seen one of these trinkets before?”

  “You suspect me of clairvoyance?” Moriarty asked. “No, I’ve never seen one exactly like these, but I’ve been expecting to run across something similar at any time over the past fifteen years. It seemed to me inevitable that someday I’d be staring at a sigil very much like this.”