Encounters of Sherlock Holmes Part 11

"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 G.o.d 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 d.a.m.nos. 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 Suss.e.x. 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 pa.s.sed 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 superst.i.tious folk in that part of the islands, and will believe any silly 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 superst.i.tions 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, gra.s.sy 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 Yorkshire.

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 coa.r.s.e 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.

It had been a far more enjoyable evening that I had expected and really, Doctor, I am only telling you about it now in order to prove that I am taking seriously your exhortations that I should relax during my northern sojourn and do my level best to let down my hair.

This morning we are in disarray. My head and that of my sister are both pounding with the echoes of queer music. Nellie has made several large pots of tea to help us stir ourselves. Uppermost in my mind is the needling impression left upon me by that grotesque hostess, Mrs Claus. During our unexpectedly energetic dancing, I caught her watching us once or twice, through the crowd. She even had the nerve to waggle her fat fingers at me.

Also-and I haven't breathed a word of this to Nellie, of course -I happened to glimpse a poster advertising the very thing that you and Himself have asked me to watch out for.

In the ladies' lavatory there was a garish notice for An Extravaganza of Exorcism to be held at the Christmas Hotel. It's on every Tuesday night, apparently.

Yours, Mrs Hudson * * *

Dear Dr Watson, It was evening before Nellie and I ventured out again and, in nostalgic vein, Nellie wanted to reminisce about our distant shared childhood in the Borders. I have no interest in looking back at a time when I was small, helpless and at the mercy of neglectful parents, and I can't see why she would care to dwell on such times when folk would call out names and throw rocks at her in the street. But my sister seems depressed and sunk into herself. Her flesh appears to hang off her distorted skeleton and her spirit is out of sorts, and so I indulged her for a portion of the evening, roving stiffly over old times. I also made half a dozen discreet enquiries about her health and state of mind, but about both my sister has not been forthcoming, poor mite.

Gabbling about a childhood expunged of all distressing details, she led me through the harbour and there we found a crowd gathered around a certain whaling vessel at the jetty. There was a flurry of excitement and kerfuffle going on as the ship docked and naturally we paused to see what was occurring. Nellie pointed to the cause of all the over-stimulation and it turned out to be a dark, dripping, unidentifiable carca.s.s that was being roped into a harness on the deck of the ship. The sailors had brought something horrid out of the freezing sea. Some multi-limbed monstrosity that sent shivers through each of the observers, none of whom had seen anything like it.

We wandered to the swing bridge over the harbour and, standing downwind of its evil, brackish stench, we watched as the nasty thing was hauled aloft. I stared straight into its monstrous and sightless eyes.

And how do I explain this without sounding like a raging loon? Ach, Dr Watson. You will think that no more than two days away from Baker Street has turned me into a silly woman. For: I looked into the eyes of that beast. Eyes as large as side plates they were, and I felt I could see whole galaxies expand in their swirling depths. I saw stars blooming and worlds colliding and time telescoping into nothingness. I felt the whole of the future and past were laid out before me as I stood there on the bridge in the middle of that town, with the turbid North Sea all chilly around me. I experienced a small thrill of excitement, I have to say All of that I saw in the queer cephalopod's eyes.

Anyhow, then we had a very pleasant fish supper. Much, much better than the rubbish we get in London. I hope you and Himself are having a pleasant week, Doctor, and that there have been no untoward investigations thrust upon the two of you. You know how I fret. Tomorrow is Tuesday, as you know, and I shall be attending the Extravaganza of Exorcisms, just to see what it is like. I will report forthwith.

Yours, Mrs Hudson Dear Dr Watson, Oh by jingo.

Why on earth did you ask me to go there? Why not leave a poor woman alone to potter about at the seaside and enjoy old ladyish things? Why make me undertake a mission of this nature?

I wish I had never gone.

Nellie is upstairs in her bed. It's past one in the morning. She's whimpering in her sleep, I can hear it through the floorboards. I'm just praying that she won't be permanently damaged by what she has been through tonight.

I'll tell you what it was. It was cruel, is what it was. It was shameful cruelty on the part of that woman and I blame myself. More than you and Himself, I blame myself, for letting my poor sister come along to the Christmas Hotel with me this evening.

But how was I to know?

I mean, with things of this sort, you expect them to be a den of charlatans, don't you? There's nothing in it, is there? All that table-rapping. Spirit-world mumbo jumbo. Why, I recall several occasions when you yourself and Himself have been called out on cases complicated by the carryings-on of fakers of psychic phenomena. I had a.s.sumed that much the same would be going on at the jamboree held at the Christmas Hotel and, indeed, when we first went in, it did seem like a fairly innocuous affair: a kind of bazaar for the feebleminded. There were gypsies everywhere, reading palms in tents and at tables; there were Arabs and Jews and Chinese flogging their exotic wares; there were foreign folk consulting crystals and scrying mirrors and all types of occult artefacts. The very air was singing with the mystical mumblings of the fey folk crowded into the hotel's public rooms.

It was for the demonstrations of exorcisms that we were there, however, as you well know, Dr Watson. I guided my lumpen and somewhat sullen sister in the direction of the ballroom and there we were witness to a most peculiar performance. He was rather like a magician on that stage, with his a.s.sistant in a glamorous, beruffled frock. Denise and Wheatley, they were billed as, and, when they got going with a volunteer from the audience, I saw that it was the female Denise who took the lead. She was the one shouting and exhorting the devil to hie himself out of the volunteer elf. Mr Wheatley simply stood to one side, mumbling verses from a black-bound Old Testament and casting worried sideways glances at the supposedly possessed young man who then started vomiting on the stage.

It was a revolting spectacle, but my sister was enthralled. When I turned to tell her that I thought we had seen enough, I was startled to see that Nellie had an avid expression on her face. Her whole, twisted body was rigid and on the very point of surging forward through that crowd. "N- Nellie...?" I asked.

She looked at me and I saw a light in her eyes that I had never seen before. A wicked light, I thought.

We were interrupted then by the next act. Denise and Wheatley had apparently been successful in de-demonising the vomiting elf, and were replaced by a formidably ancient Romany woman with jet-black hair and dressed in hooped satin skirts. She was hard-faced and sinister and she appeared to be slipping into a trance.

"There are devils amongst us," she intoned, in a curious accent. "Beelzebub walks amongst us."

I turned to my sister to make a dry and jocular remark and was startled to find that Nellie had gone. She had slipped neatly through the press of bodies and was hauling herself onto the stage area. There was a roar of approval from the crowd.

"He is in me!" Nellie declared. She held out her arms and faced us, with a beatific smile upon her usually rather miserable-looking and crumpled face. "The devil is inside me! He has always been inside me! I have always been his plaything!"

The applause grew wilder, as if my unfortunate sister had won the approval of her fellow townsfolk; as if she were confirming the truth of something they had always suspected about her.

There was a string of words stuck in my throat. I tried repeatedly to shout them out at the stage, but they wouldn't come. I was suspended in horror, jostled in the crowd and helpless.

Now the Romany woman was laying her coa.r.s.e, dirty hands on my sister and chanting some very strange verses indeed. I watched as Nellie went stiff as a board and started to froth at the mouth. That made me sick to the pit of my stomach. I could feel the Seafood Surprise from our early dinner start to rise in my gorge.

The gypsy woman's chanting was reaching a crescendo. I could have sworn I saw Nellie's eyes roll back and turn red.

Then there was a round of applause and it was over. Nellie was helped down from the stage and she was smiling shyly and nodding, acknowledging the applause. She wandered back through the crowd towards me.

On the stage the Romany exorcist flung up her arms and said, "The demon is powerfully strong! He will not leave this woman so easily. Nor will he leave any of you. All of you must buy..." And here she produced a pink jar of some kind of snake oil that she insisted we must all queue up and buy for four guineas a pop. Well, I was having none of it, and practically dragged my still-shaking and frothy-mouthed sister home.

So-thank you, indeed, Dr Watson. As if you even needed Nellie and I to investigate those charlatans at the Christmas Hotel. Naturally they are fakers. We knew that even before attending this macabre charade. But Nellie needn't have been frightened out of her wits in aid of your pursuit of knowledge. I wish you had never read those accounts in the first place, of the miraculous and mysterious events reported here in Whitby. I don't know why a sensible man such as yourself would have been at all bothered in the first place.

Yours, Mrs Hudson * * *

Dear Dr Watson, This morning my poor sister was no better. She has gone a very odd colour indeed. Her usual hue isn't all that healthy looking, but this is downright alarming. I asked her if there was anything I could do for her.

"Maude will know," she said, tremulously. "Fetch Maude."

Well, it turns out her friend Maude Sturgeon lives down by the docks and she is what used to be called a local wise woman. Actually, there is a whole family of wise women, as it turns out, and these sisters occupy a tall house not far from the harbour. Downstairs it is a kind of herbalist shop-reeking of spices and curious unguents. I cast my eye around with some interest at the things they had on display. But I was there on a mission. "Maude will be able to help me," Nellie had insisted.

Now I was confronting the formidable Maude Sturgeon herself, in her witchy emporium. She listened disapprovingly as I described the previous evening's events. She seemed to take a very dim view of anything that went on at the Christmas Hotel.

"There's always someone dabbling with dark forces and things they should know better about," said Maude gruffly. She was more like a schoolmarm than a witch, I thought, in her plain grey suit and her steel-grey hair pinned up like so. It was rea.s.suring to be in the presence of her stolid good sense. She asked me to come and sit in their parlour, where I found three of her rather more fey sisters engaged in a very odd task indeed.

Maude was fetching her shawl off the hat stand. "Oh, don't mind them," she told me. "They're stuffing it for the Whitby museum."

I looked harder and realised that the slippery dark thing they were all sewing wasn't some svelte garment after all. It was the gutted remains of the monstrous sea beast that had been landed yesterday. Those witchy sisters appraised me as they went on st.i.tching, and I was very careful not to look into the behemoth's eyes again.

Then Maude was ready and I was glad to get out of the fishy smell of that back parlour. The wise woman led the way through the narrow streets towards Nellie's house, pausing on the way to buy her a fancy cake from a favoured bakery.

"How long have you been friends with my sister?" I asked conversationally.

"Ever since she's been here," said Maude, beaming brightly and brandishing her walking stick as we pa.s.sed familiar faces. "Your sister has proved quite a reliable helper on a number of my more terrifying investigations and adventures here in Whitby."