Further encounters of sh.., p.12
Further Encounters of Sherlock Holmes, page 12
“Watson argued eloquently this morning for the benevolence of your schoolmasters, and I must admit that their plans for today were meant as a kindness, to spare you from the earthquakes and rivers of fire they no doubt anticipated shortly.”
“Zounds,” cried Tiger, “but we’ve had a close shave. One can’t but wonder, however, what the dooce happened to Arnold Bragg? Did he stumble across their ungodly scheme? Does his body lie somewhere in the grounds of the school, beneath these banks of snow?”
“Opinion is divided on the matter,” I said, but received such a look from my friend that I retreated behind a café menu.
“It certainly strikes me as highly unlikely,” replied Holmes. “I believe Bragg — and, probably, certain other boys who did not have the fortune to be missed — were the object of Lemaitre and his brethren, together with men of London, Sussex and Paris itself. Whether they have been smuggled out of London or off this earthly plane altogether will be established following the questioning of our friends.”
Unhappily, in what proved to be Holmes’s third error of this tale, the brethren never spoke of Arnold Bragg’s final whereabouts. Through fair means or foul, they were each of them finally successful in the modest taking of their own lives whilst still in police custody, and took the secret of the wax card player with them to their graves. I must admit to feeling a strange excitement on the night of December 31st, as the chimes of Big Ben resounded through the capital and a new year swept away the old, the peculiar unspoken secrets of Meadowbank College along with them.
As for that weird effigy herself, though Mrs Hudson strenuously denied it, I believe she made arrangements for the sale of that Marvel of Montmartre to a passing rag-and-bone man whilst Holmes and I were both walking to the school. Holmes made some fruitless attempts to regain the effigy, visiting all manner of curiosity shops and esoteric bookshops, from Coptic Street to Whitechapel, before admitting the loss of her — into what hands, we could not guess.
Mr Crawthew, that lynchpin of the tale, returned to his role at Meadowbank and remained Headmaster into the earlier twentieth century without comment from any quarter. Whether he enjoyed any further adventures beyond the bounds of respectability, one can only imagine…
* * *
The pencil is still at last. The silence of the room appears to seethe. I come to, and realise I have been standing at the woman’s elbow as her hand worked, feverishly, and apparently outside of her own control.
I don’t know what to say about the story she has laid before me. I’ve never heard such an unlikely tale. Did she really dredge it from the river-muck of time, or merely her own, strange memory?
“Thank you,” I murmur, my lips paper dry “That is, Merci beaucoup.”
My escort has been reading alongside me. Now he lays a fine-boned hand on my shoulder, the weight of a leaf “One moment,” he says, goes to the door and closes it. “I am not at all certain you can be allowed to leave with that story.”
A cold dread fills my stomach, but I try to remain calm, and suppressing the thoughts that are already making themselves clear in my mind, I ask, “Why ever not?”
The young man lights a candle. “It is without precedent, I am afraid. As Dr Watson says, there are some names that must be protected.” He places the candle on the woman’s desk. “What say you, Madame?”
I do not want to look down, as she turns her eyes toward me. I know already the face I will see, the placid, carefully shaped features, unmarked by the flow of time. I look away as she lays down her pencil, rises stiffly from the table, and turns her sightless eyes upon me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nick Campbell is a writer and research student living in South London. Short stories of his are published by Obverse Books, including adventures with Iris Wildthyme and uncanny entries in Shenanigans and Storyteller (edited by Paul Magrs and Stuart Douglas respectively). He keeps a blog about books at leaf-pile.blogspot.co.uk and can’t play cards to save his life.
THE CASE OF THE DEVIL’S DOOR
BY JAMES GOSS
I have met many different kinds of murderer during my adventures with my friend Sherlock Holmes, but I had never before encountered a house that killed people.
This singular case first came to my attention while I was on my rounds, when a running boy accosted me in some excitement. He bore a note summoning me to Baker Street. I hastily finished my last call and hurried there.
“What kept you, Watson?” my friend snapped as I was about to knock on the door, having taken the stairs two at a time.
“My last patient,” I huffed. “The poor fellow’s case was a mortal one.” I stepped into the room.
“And so might this fellow be, Watson, thanks to your delay.” Holmes was stood at the mantelpiece, gesturing towards the occupant of a chair by the fire. Barely had I noticed him when I sprang to his side, taking his temperature and pulse.
The man was in some distress. His skin, naturally olive in complexion, was drained of blood, his eyes were unfocused, and his hands clenched as spasms shook along his arms.
“What’s happened to him?” I exclaimed.
“If you had got here sooner,” retorted Holmes, “then I would know.”
I was just beginning to protest, when he held up his hands, mollifying me. “Just do your best, Watson. He burst in upon me this morning, and such words as he has spoken are Spanish in origin and supernatural in nature.”
I administered a sedative, and the patient sank into a brief doze. I took the opportunity to observe him. Aware of Holmes’s eyes upon me, I started to describe the man.
“I should say he is in his early thirties. Extremely dirty and dishevelled —”
“Indeed?”
“But the clothes that he wears are good. Or were. Perhaps he has fallen on hard times?”
A gentle cluck of reproof. “The grime, Watson, is on the outside of the garments, not the body. A cursory examination of the back of his neck would reveal the shirt to be freshly laundered and worn against clean skin.”
“So this is the result of some kind of attack?”
“Perhaps. Notice the marks on the knees and the scuffing of the palms. He has fallen over several times and righted himself. There are no bruises on his face, nor are the marks on his hands consistent with trying to protect himself from a beating. I would reckon…”
My friend fell silent. The giant brain behind his eyes was moving words as judiciously as a Chinese emperor constructing a Mah Jong wall. “Our patient here has been running for his life for a prolonged period. But from whom?”
I looked at him questioningly, and he rammed his hands into the pockets of his dressing-gown. “No, Watson, you would like me to describe the demons of his rantings — but I shall not. Those may remain the sincere conviction of our client. Ah, he awakes. The brandy, I think!”
Our patient stirred. He flinched, as though surprised to find himself in his surroundings and looked at us both for an explanation. My friend stepped forward, genuinely keen to learn facts to feed the racing engine of his mind.
“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend Dr Watson. You may remember calling on me in considerable agitation?”
The man nodded. “My apologies,” he muttered. “The devils have not found me?”
“No,” Holmes shook his head, his tone soothing, “You are safe here. Now please, tell me your story.”
The man frowned. His accent was thick, but his English was cultured. He shook himself like a dog, and then began. But his opening words were surprising. “The house — it tried to devour me!”
* * *
At some urging from my friend, our client began his story from the beginning. His name was Mendoza, and he hailed from that troubled Central American state of San Pedro. Recently, a counter revolutionary party called the Sons of the Tiger had swept to power, crushing the people under a new wave of brutality and darkness.
Fearing for the safety of his family, Mendoza had wished to return home. For an exile to do so openly was death, but word had spread among the expatriate community of an underground railroad that conveyed San Pedrans into their homeland in utter secrecy.
Mendoza had vowed to undertake this perilous journey. The voyage was said to be exceedingly dangerous, and many spoke out against it, preferring to risk an open sailing, or agitating for change from the safety of Europe.
“But I am a man of courage,” Mendoza struck himself proudly on the breast, before collapsing his own bravado, “or at least, I believed myself to be, until the events of last night.” He recounted how he had made contact with someone who had delivered him instructions of where to be, and at what hour. He was to embark without saying a proper farewell to friends, relations, or loved ones. As he described this, I had a sudden sharp memory.
It was of a woman, very prettily attired, sat in that same chair, sobbing hopelessly into a handkerchief She was an heiress, and had called on Holmes just over a month ago, begging him to undertake an investigation into the sudden disappearance of her fiancé. Something struck a chord in my mind — had he not also been from San Pedro? I glanced across at my friend, and caught his slight nod. He was, as always, ahead of me.
Mendoza’s narrative continued. “I will not elaborate the full details of the chain, as I fear it would bore you.” Holmes gave him a sharp glance, and assured him that he had never been bored by details.
Mendoza became hesitant. “What I am about to tell you… you must remember, señors, that my country, my people, spans both the modern and ancient worlds. Some of our largest cities are built around ancient temples, cathedrals adjacent to altars where human sacrifices were once made. Some of the remoter tribes practise voodoo, and our late tyrant Don Murillo was said to have many demons on the payroll.” His smile was grim. “I tell you this… because you are both rational men of the modern world. I wear your clothes, but you may easily dismiss me as a credulous fool. True, I was raised to believe in devils, ghosts and curses, but still, as an adult, I have no doubt of what happened to me last night…”
Holmes could, on occasion, be brusque, but he could also show surprising tact. “Rest assured, you will find a sympathetic reception here. Please, tell us where this supernatural attack took place.”
“In Bayswater,” said Mendoza.
* * *
If Holmes was surprised, it showed in little more than a twitch under one eyebrow. Mendoza explained that the start of his perilous journey was to be in London’s embassy district, at the doors of the Consulate of Atoria, the neighbouring state to San Pedro. “There are,” said Mendoza, “Many Atorians who remember the military aggression of our hated Tiger, and are in no hurry to see San Pedro return to a warlike footing.”
He was told to report to the embassy in Leinster Gardens half an hour before midnight. He was warned not to visit the street earlier, for fear of being seen by the many spies of the new regime. “It was feared that they knew of the existence of the underground railroad,” Mendoza permitted himself a bitter laugh, “but how… how it can have been taken over by demons… I do not know how they could…” He took a sip of brandy and shook his head again, as though trying to throw the nightmare free.
“It was a warm night, and the street itself was empty. The gates to Hyde Park had been shut, and any tourists had wandered home. I felt nervous as I approached the embassy, the flags of Atoria floating outside, seeming to offer me welcome. I knew that, once inside, I could look forward to a long and arduous journey, but I was excited — I would be going home, to make the land I loved well again.” Mendoza paused, pride mingling with a reluctance to continue.
“I stepped closer to the embassy, and felt a momentary worry — its windows were dark. Perhaps it was closed for the night? And yet, I knocked at the door. There was no answer. I stood and waited, feeling all the time that I was about to be seized by padfooted assassins. But the only eyes watching me were the dark eyes of the embassy windows. And so, my heart in my mouth, I knocked again.
“I had been warned that, if I received no answer, I was to turn the door handle myself. I did so. I could make out few details of the hallway beyond, save a light at the end of it, and the impression of some picture frames ranged along the walls. I called out, softly, using the code word…”
Mendoza paused, and gasped. A sweat had broken out on his forehead, and I swiftly refilled his glass. He gulped at it, and continued, his accent thicker than before.
“As I spoke, it was as though I had summoned all the demons from hell. I stepped over the threshold, and plunged into the jaws of the underworld. It was truly, truly as though I was inside the mouth of a monster. A sulphurous roar erupted around me, and the most foul breath engulfed me. There was no floor, only the maw of that terrible beast. As I fell, I grabbed at the door handle. For a few seconds, I hung over the abyss, my senses assaulted by the hungry cries and screams around me, and then I flung myself back out, clawing and terrified onto the pavement. I was outside the embassy again, but the sounds, those terrible hell creatures I had unleashed, beat around me still, and I ran, heedless… running for hours, falling and screaming, until at last I tumbled senseless into an alleyway. When I came to, dawn was breaking, and I was amazed to find both body and soul intact. And yet, wherever I looked, I could sense those creatures. So I ran to your house, Mr Holmes. I had heard much of you — I did not dare trouble my countrymen (for it is clear that we are betrayed) and I worried that the police would laugh at me… and I feared that I was not in my right wits. I wonder… I wonder if I am now?” Mendoza looked up, startled. “Did you hear that, señors? They are come again!”
As his lunacy broke upon him afresh, I stepped in with another dose of sedative, and he lapsed into a fitful slumber.
Holmes regarded our patient. “Well, Watson, what do you make of it?”
“Perhaps he really has been chased by demons… but there are other theories, I’m afraid. As much as he says he wishes to go home, he may secretly be terrified of the consequences, and have summoned these fantasies into vivid life around him.”
Half-expecting a rebuke, I instead received a friendly clap across the shoulders. “You are a commendable rationalist, Watson.” Holmes seized his hat from the rack. “For myself, I rather fancy heading out to capture a demon house.”
* * *
A short journey in the foetid air of the Metropolitan Railway brought us to the leafy streets of Bayswater, identical avenues of white-stuccoed buildings stretching between Hyde Park and the fairytale pavilion of Whiteley’s department store.
We reached Leinster Gardens, and Holmes stopped. He swung his walking stick up and down the street and then turned to me.
“What do you see, Watson? Or rather,” a small smile, “what do you not see?”
I wrinkled my eyes against the morning glare. The sun reflecting from the endless white plasterwork was a trifle blinding.
“Well, Holmes,” I hesitated. I was always nervous. Like a man crossing a river on stepping stones, I knew I would, at some point, miss my footing. Every time I approached the stream more cautiously, my footsteps more ginger than the time before. This time, however, I felt sure of my ground. “The one thing I cannot see on this street is the Atorian Embassy.”
Holmes nodded. “It’s a long street, Watson. It may still surprise us.”
We made our way up the serried white ranks. I found myself counting off the numbers as we passed grand residences and businesses, a public house breaking up the monotony like a stained tooth in an otherwise immaculate row of dentures.
Finally, hopelessly, we reached number 24 Leinster Gardens. Or rather, we reached its absence. A hiccup in the postal service. Number 23 was a promising-smelling Greek restaurant. And next door, Numbers 25 and 26 were a handsome-fronted hotel. The Clarion spread out along the street, from its grandiose entrance to a tea garden, its tables covered by gaily fluttering sun parasols. It was an oasis of tranquil gentility on a street already suffused with tranquil gentility. It was impossible to believe Leinster Gardens could be the home of supernatural horror.
The one hope was a narrow alleyway between the restaurant and the hotel, scarcely large enough to fit a carriage. I caught Holmes’s glance at it.
“Could they…?” and I stopped. I felt my feet yet again placing their balance on a mossy stone. “Could someone have perhaps constructed something in the alleyway at night… and…”
The sheer preposterousness of the notion forced me to stop before I plunged into the burn.
To my surprise, Holmes fixed me with a smile. “It is a capital notion, Watson. Extravagant, but sound. The one flaw…” His walking stick rang out against the cobbles of the alleyway. “As you can hear, solid road. No gaping satanic maw.” His lips thinned.
“Then perhaps this alleyway was once the site of a house,” I persisted. “One which…” Again, the slippery stone.
Holmes continued my perilous train. “The ghost of that house returns to haunt the street at night, pretending to be an embassy and devouring exiled revolutionaries?”
We stood in silence, contemplating the alleyway.
“It is, I grant you Watson, a possibility that has some merits.” I could not tell how dry my companion was being.
“I have another suggestion,” I said, surer of my footing.
“Of course you do,” said Holmes, looking up at the windows of the hotel.
“These streets all look very much alike, and have very similar names. Could not poor Mendoza in his confusion have mistaken one for another? The Atorian Embassy could still be somewhere hereabouts, or he could have mistaken another house for it. One which —” Something caught in my throat and I coughed.
