Encounters of Sherlock Holmes Part 13

All of a sudden, she was back on the stage. She darted forward, with her hooped skirts and her long black hair fanning out around her. The Romany exorcist looked absolutely livid.

"What's this?" shouted out the jocular Mr Wheatley, as his wife continued her arcane ritual. "The stage has been invaded! Hie thee hence, gypsy, and leave the exorcisms to your betters! Avaunt! I cast thee out, Romany witch!"

The gypsy woman snarled at this. She was well nigh feral, I thought. Maude and I exchanged a glance at this sudden turn in events. Denise's concentration had lapsed, and my poor sister sagged back onto the stage floor.

"You are dabbling in things you do not understand," said the gypsy, in rather screeching tones. She thrust a finger in the face of Denise Wheatley, who was out of breath and venomously cross.

"Get off the stage, Romany wh.o.r.e!" the prize-winning Denise thundered, and took a swing at her.

The gypsy dodged the blow and swung back with a rather swift uppercut to the jaw. Denise staggered backwards and put her hands up to her face. She shrieked and called the gypsy something I will not write down nor send through the Royal Mail. Soon, both female exorcists were engaged in a hand-to-hand catfight while the audience roared their approval.

"Someone should stop them," I said nervously to Maude.

She tossed her head. "Nothing wrong with a good grapple to sort things out. I just hope Nellie doesn't get hurt in the crossfire..."

Mr Wheatley was hovering anxiously as he watched his wife fighting the gypsy. He clutched his Old Testament to his chest and looked worriedly at Mrs Claus. "Fight! Fight! Fight!" cried the owner of the Christmas Hotel.

It seemed that all her magical powers couldn't help Denise Wheatley in a fair fight. Soon the gypsy had her pinned to the floor and was clawing at her face.

"Oh my G.o.d!" Mr Wheatley bleated. "She's pulling out her eyes...!"

But that wasn't happening at all. The gypsy was, in fact, removing the Eyes of Miimon, which Denise had affixed into her sockets in front of her already rather deep-set eyes using rather a lot of eyelash glue. We all cheered as the gypsy held up the two glittering jewels. We watched her clamber to her feet and keep the so-called champion exorcist on the ground by standing on her blue hair. Behind them, Mr Wheatley noticed that his prized trophy had been smashed in the kerfuffle.

"The Eyes of Miimon!" cried the gypsy, in a rather grand voice. Then she tossed them into the crowd, which I thought was a rather cavalier gesture. But the gypsy's aim was good and true. Maude Sturgeon plucked them out of the air and stowed them swiftly in her handbag. "Take good care of them," warned the gypsy And then she basked in a warm round of applause from the crowd.

Mrs Claus took the stage again, and declared the evening's bizarre entertainments over. She told us all to fetch ourselves another drink and to have fun. The dancing would recommence, just as soon as the band could set up.

We saw her in earnest conversation with the gypsy, and I hurried over to help Nellie, who seemed rather woozy after her ordeal.

"Are you all right, my dear?"

"I am... fine." Nellie struggled to her feet. "Raphael is still inside of me, which is the main thing."

"Oh good," I said, though I still felt very dismayed by the thought of my sister actually wanting to be possessed by this being, whatever he was.

Maude slapped her shiny leather handbag triumphantly. "And thanks to the gypsy, I've got the Eyes of Miimon! Safe, where no one can make mischief with them!"

Nellie looked rather pleased by that.

But we all had one remaining question, and it was to do with the gypsy woman. Why had that beaky-nosed creature helped us like that, in our moment of direst need?

It was some time later, in a quiet corner of the public rooms, near the roaring fire in the lounge, when we caught up with her.

"Look here, gypsy woman," said Maude Sturgeon, with her usual bluff heartiness. "I suppose we owe you our thanks for your intercession tonight. If that dreadful woman Denise had been allowed to keep these jewels, who knows what terrible sorceries she might have unleashed."

"Where is she now?" asked the gypsy sharply, glaring at the three of us in turn.

"That's a good point," said Nellie. "She vanished into the crowd, once you let her go. And so has her husband."

"They live to fight another day," shrugged the gypsy. "Ah well."

She was pulling a shawl around her, clearly ready for the off "Look here," I said, stepping forward. "You still haven't explained anything..."

The gypsy laughed. "I trust Maude Sturgeon to do the correct thing with the crystals. They were stolen from the Finnish people and they must be returned. Miss Sturgeon will act in accordance with the law."

I looked at Maude and she seemed determined-on the contrary- to dispatch the things straight into the b.i.t.c.h's Maw, as planned.

"Well, yes," Maude said. "Quite right. I will contact the authorities tomorrow."

"Excellent," the gypsy nodded. "Then my work here is finished."

Nellie was frowning and her single eye was blazing. "Hang on a moment!" she cried. She had to yell over the noise of the band playing Christmas tunes. They were getting louder by the minute. "Contact the authorities? Return the Eyes of Miimon to the Finnish people?" She sounded scornful. "What kind of gypsy exorcist are you, woman?"

The gypsy started laughing at us then. It was a harsh, gasping, somewhat sarcastic laughter that came bubbling out from under the shawl and her dark ringlets.

It was a laughter I took only a second or two to recognise.

The Romany woman reached up and dragged off her shawl and her wig and gave us one of those quicksilver grins I was so used to seeing.

A grin I was in no way expecting to see in a hotel on a cliff above the dark North Sea.

"Good G.o.ddess!" cried Maude Sturgeon.

"I don't believe it," Nellie gasped. "Hettie-" she turned to me "-did you know about this?"

I stared at her and then back at Mr Sherlock Holmes. I couldn't help but laugh out loud. "I most certainly did not!"

And then, still half-garbed as a gypsy, our mutual friend Himself gave a theatrical bow and turned on his heel. Would you believe it, Dr Watson? He flew out of that Christmas Hotel without a single further word.

And I suppose he will be back with you now, Doctor. You will be reading this over breakfast. Perhaps reading this final missive aloud to him, as you scratch together your bachelors' breakfast and use the last of the damson jam I left out for you. Never fear, I will be back in Baker Street by tomorrow evening, to clear up the mess you have both undoubtedly made of the place.

Tell Mr Holmes that my sister and her partner in supernatural investigations both thank him profusely for his help in the case of the Eyes of Miimon and the Giant Finnish Squid and the Exorcists at the Christmas Hotel. Tell him from me that I will resist, in future, the temptation of ever again taking a relaxing fortnight by the sea.

Yours, Mrs Hudson * * *

From the Journal of Dr John Watson.

November, 1925.

That is the end of those letters which, now that I am reminded of them, strike as queer a chord in me as they did back then, some thirty years ago.

We were all so young in those days! Mrs Hudson included. Now she lives at the home of Professor Challenger in Norfolk, where she acts as his housekeeper and occasional companion on his bizarre adventures. All of a sudden I find myself keen to take a train journey to a reunion with Mrs H and the formidable Professor. Perhaps there really will be something in this business of the Finnish stones, found hidden in the eyes of a giant squid all those years ago.

Won't Mrs Hudson be surprised!

Yes, in fact, since I've nothing planned for the rest of the week- why ever not? My beloved wife surely won't mind if I go gallivanting in search of new adventures.

I shall make the journey at once and report back fully, later on.

NOTE, LATER ON.

What followed is, of course, a tale for another day.

A ghastly tale for which I don't feel the world is yet ready.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Paul Magrs lives and writes in Manchester. He has published a number of novels over the years, his most recent being Brenda and Effie Forever! (s...o...b..oks), which is the sixth in his series about the Bride of Frankenstein running a B&B in Whitby and solving supernatural mysteries with her mardy best friend, Effie.

THE CASE OF THE NIGHT CRAWLER.

BY GEORGE MANN.

From the notebooks of John H. Watson, M.D.

During the many years in which I served as both a friend and chronicler of Sherlock Holmes, there were but a rarefied handful of occasions upon which I witnessed that cold logician rendered speechless or fl.u.s.tered by the unexpected outcome of a case. Irene Adler evoked one such response, and the events that I have come to consider as "The Case of the Night Crawler" elicited yet another. It is due in part to the sensitivities of my friend that I have never published my notes regarding this most singular of adventures, but I record them here for the sake of posterity and completeness. I am, if nothing else, a thorough man, and it would not do to allow such a startling series of incidents to go entirely unrecorded.

So, here, in this worn leather journal, where perhaps my words will go forever unread, I shall set it down. I am old now, and I have little better to do with my time but to reflect upon the more adventurous days of my past.

The biggest irony of all, of course, is that Holmes himself had very little to do with the unravelling of the case. Indeed, he resoundingly turned his nose up at the opportunity to involve himself in such "coa.r.s.e, ridiculous matters," as I remember so well that he put it, plucking violently at his violin strings as if to underline the significance of his words. His dismissive att.i.tude was, in this rare instance, a cause for his later embarra.s.sment, as it would transpire that the matter in question was quite as far from ridiculous as one might ever imagine. Not that Holmes was ever one to learn from such mistakes.

The aforementioned events marked also my first encounter with that remarkable individual Sir Maurice Newbury and his most astonishing a.s.sociate, Miss Veronica Hobbes. It was not, much to my regret, the beginning of a long-lasting friendship, but Newbury and I nevertheless identified a mutual respect, and there would follow a number of other occasions upon which we would throw our hats in the same ring-most notable amongst them that dreadful matter of the Kaiser's unhinged spiritualist during the early days of the war.

Holmes, of course, had quite a different opinion of Newbury, but I suppose that was only to be expected; although without equal in his field, Holmes was not above a modic.u.m of professional rivalry if he felt his reputation-or more truthfully, his pride-was at risk. His att.i.tude towards Newbury would change over time, and I believe by the end, following the resolution of that matter in 1915 and the destruction of the spectrograph generator, he might even have granted Newbury the respect he deserved. War does that to a man, I've found. It teaches him to work alongside those he might otherwise have considered, if not enemies, perhaps the unlikeliest of allies.

It was during that bitterly cold autumn of 1902, early in the season, when the leaves were first beginning to turn and the days were growing noticeably shorter, that the seeds of the affair were sown. My friend and fellow medical pract.i.tioner, Peter Brownlow, had called on me unexpectedly at my club. It was late in the evening and I'd been enjoying a solitary brandy by the fire when the poor chap practically collapsed into the chair opposite me, his face ashen. He generally suffered from a pale complexion and maintained a rake-thin physique, a condition he claimed was a result of a stomach disorder but which I attributed more to vanity than any inability to digest his food. Nevertheless, he had a good heart and was a fine doctor, but on that bl.u.s.tery September afternoon he had about him the look of a man who'd seen a ghost.

"Whatever is the matter with you, dear chap?" I said, leaning forward in concern and pa.s.sing him my brandy. "Here, drink this."

Brownlow nodded, grabbed gratefully at the gla.s.s and choked it down in one long gulp. I could see his hand was trembling as he placed the gla.s.s on the side table beside his chair.

"Now, tell me what has perturbed you so."

Brownlow took a deep breath. "I barely know how to give voice to it, John. I'm sure you'll think me quite insane."

"Oh, I shouldn't worry about that," I said, chuckling. "I've grown quite used to seeing the impossible rendered mundane, and to madmen proved sane. Speak what's on your mind."

Brownlow smiled, but there was no humour in it. "I have seen the most terrible thing, John. A creature... a beast..." He held his hand to his mouth for a moment, unsure how to go on.

I frowned. "A beast?"

"Yes. Yes, that's the only word for it. A beast of the most diabolical appearance, as if it had dragged itself from the very depths of Hades itself." He turned, staring into the grate at the glowing embers of the fire, but I could tell that he was seeing something else.

"Go on," I prompted.

He closed his eyes, as if trying to blink away the after-image of whatever it was he was attempting to describe. "It had a fat, bulbous body, about the size of a hackney cab, and it pulled itself along on eight thick, tentacle-like limbs that wriggled beneath it like those of an octopus. The sound of its pa.s.sing was like the screeching of a thousand tormented souls. It was devilish, John. The most horrendous thing I have ever seen."

"And where was this, man? Where did you see this beast?" I watched Brownlow shudder at the very thought of this terrible sight to which he claimed to have borne witness. My first thought was that he must have been drunk or otherwise inebriated, but Brownlow had never been much of a drinker, and he was clearly terrified. Whatever the truth of the matter-and I was sure it could not be that he had genuinely encountered such a bizarre specimen-Brownlow believed what he was saying.

"Cheyne Walk," he said, "about an hour ago. The darn thing pulled itself out of the Thames right before me and slithered off down the street."

Well, I admit at this point I was close to rolling my eyes in disbelief, but Brownlow had such a desperate air about him, and I was sure there must have been more to his story.

"I came directly here. It was the closest place to hand. I couldn't think what else to do. And then I saw you sitting here and knew you'd know what to do."

In truth, I had no real notion of what to do with such a remarkable tale. Surely the police would have only sn.i.g.g.e.red at Brownlow's story and sent him on his way, putting it down to nothing but an hallucination or the fabrication of an unhinged mind. But Holmes aside, Brownlow was one of the most rational men I knew, and there was no reason he should lie.

"Well, first of all, I think you need another stiff drink for your nerves. I'll fetch you another brandy." He nodded enthusiastically at this. "Beyond that, I want you to set it out for me again, this time recalling as much of the detail as you can muster." I'd seen Holmes extract information from enough of his potential clients to know that this was the best way to begin unpicking Brownlow's story. Perhaps he might give something away, some little detail he had missed the first time around that might help to shed light on what had truly occurred. I admit, my interest had been piqued, and I felt pity for the chap, who had clearly had the wits scared out of him.

So it was that Brownlow downed another large brandy and set about relating his tale once again, this time in exquisite detail. I must admit the credibility of his words grew somewhat in the retelling, but there was nothing in it that could help me to discern what might truly have occurred. I had seen some things in my time, particularly since returning from Afghanistan and falling in with Holmes, but this tall tale seemed to test the bounds of even my well-trod credulity.

It was with a heavy heart that I sent Brownlow home to his bachelor's apartment that night, unable to offer him any real comfort, other than a prescription for a mild sedative should he find it necessary in order to sleep. I promised the man I would consider his story, and that I would contact him directly should I happen upon any possible hint of an explanation. There was little else to be done, and so I made haste to my bed, my mind restless with concern.

The next morning I approached breakfast with a mind to refer Brownlow to a nerve specialist I'd worked with on occasion. Having slept on the matter I was now convinced that his unG.o.dly vision could have only been the result of an hallucination, and decided that, if it hadn't been brought about by drink or other mind-altering substances, it was most likely an expression of nervous exhaustion. Brownlow had always had a tendency to throw himself into his work, body and soul. Aside from his private, paying customers, I'd known him to spend hours in aid of the poor, administering free treatment to those wretches who lined the alleyways of the slums, or huddled in their ma.s.ses beneath the bridges that crisscrossed the banks of the Thames. Perhaps he'd been overdoing it, and he simply needed some rest. Or perhaps he'd succ.u.mbed to a mild fever.

My theories were soon dispelled, however, as I set about hungrily tucking into my bacon and eggs. It is my habit to take the morning papers with my breakfast, and upon folding back the covers of The Times, I fixed upon a small report on the bottom of the second page. The headline read: EYEWITNESSES REPORT SIGHTINGS OF STRANGE BEAST.

My first thought was that Brownlow had gone to the papers with his story, but I quickly dismissed the notion. The previous night he'd been in no fit state to talk to anyone, and I'd seen him into the back of a cab myself.

I scanned the article quickly, and was surprised to see that there were, in fact, a number of reports that seemed not only to corroborate Brownlow's story, but also to expand somewhat upon it. It appeared the previous evening had been the third in a row during which sightings of this bizarre creature had been reported. Furthermore, one of the reports stated that the woman in question -a Mrs Coulthard of Brixton-had seen the beast give chase to a group of young vagabonds who had been generally up to no good, throwing rocks at nearby boats and jeering at pa.s.sers-by. Many of the reports claimed, just as Brownlow had, that the creature had dragged itself out of the Thames, and what's more, that it had been seen returning to the water upon completion of its nightly sojourn.

I leaned back in my chair, sipping at my coffee and staring at the remnants of my breakfast in astonishment. So Brownlow had been telling the truth. He had seen something down by the river. And if the veracity of his story was no longer in question, then the beast was something truly diabolical. Could it have been some sort of throwback to the prehistoric past? Or some previously undoc.u.mented variety of gargantuan squid?

I resolved to visit Holmes directly. There was a mystery here, and people were potentially in grave danger. If only I could persuade him to apply his attention to the matter, there was hope that we could uncover precisely what was going on.

The drive to Baker Street pa.s.sed in a blur. All the while, as the cab bounced and rattled over the cobbled roads, I couldn't help imagining the scene that must have confronted Brownlow and those others, the sight of that hulking beast dragging itself out of the inky black water. It would surely have been terrifying to behold.

I resolved then and there that I would find a way to look upon this creature with my own eyes. Only then could I be utterly sure of its existence and the nature of any threat it represented.

Upon my arrival at Baker Street I found Holmes in one of his peculiar, erratic moods. He was pacing back and forth before the fireplace, somewhat manically, pulling at his violin strings as if trying to wring some meaning out of the random, screeching sounds the instrument was making. It was icy cold in there, yet the fireplace remained untended to, heaped with ash and charred logs. If Holmes felt the chill he did not show it.

He had his back to me. I coughed politely from the doorway, noting with alarm that my breath actually fogged in the air before my face.