Gaslight Arcanum: Uncanny Tales of Sherlock Holmes

from his chest and Lestrade moved aside, retching. Below the waist there was little left of the man, merely a rolling mess of green slime. The patient was past caring. He gripped my left hand tight and squeezed, just once, before the life went out of him completely.

I decided not to wait to see if the slime would continue progressing after the death of its host. I dragged a sickly-looking Lestrade from the room and called once more for assistance. This time it was forthcoming.

The poor man’s remains were quickly removed, and both Lestrade and I went with them to the incinerator, standing there for long minutes to ensure that the job was done properly. I also ensured that all who had been in contact with the patient, Lestrade and myself included, washed thoroughly with soap and hot water. I checked us both for any hint of the slime. Lestrade continued to look pale and sickly, even after I gave us the all clear.

“What in God’s name did that to the man?” he asked me. I’m afraid I did not have an answer for him. But I resolved there and then to find out. I would not stand to watch any more men die in such a fashion — not if I were able to do something about it.

I left Lestrade in the hospital to clear up the situation and headed for the brewery.

It was late evening by the time a cab deposited me outside the brewery. The sound of cheering and applause came faintly across the river from where Mrs. Hudson was no doubt enjoying the spectacle of gunplay and horsemanship. Standing there in the quiet dark I began to regret not bringing my own weapon on the trip.

There was no sign of Holmes, or indeed of anyone else. I knew that any large London brewery should be running an overnight operation, given the thirst of the population for their product. For the brewery to be sitting in darkness was an ominous sign. I considered waiting for Holmes, but all my thoughts were of that poor man’s pitiful death in the hospital room. I had a feeling that, if I wanted to stop further deaths, I would need to move quickly. This contagion had a manner that suggested it would spread rapidly. It was not as Holmes’ companion, but as a doctor, that I crossed the road to the brewery.

I was grateful for what little light came from the gas lamps around the walls, but their flame only accentuated the shadows in the tall empty hall. Four large copper vats dominated the large room. The air smelled almost sweet, with a hint of bitterness where fresh hops joined the tang of fermentation. Beneath these well- remembered odors I also sensed something new — a hint of the same acrid tang that had assaulted my nasal passages back in Holmes’ room. Before I stepped further than the doorway I peered into all the corners, searching for any trace of the luminescence. I found none. Nevertheless it was with some trepidation that I stepped inside.

It was obvious to me that someone had deliberately introduced a poisonous material into the brewing vats. Their reason was as yet unclear to me, but the thought that this might have been going on for some time made my blood run cold. There might even, at this very moment, be drinkers quaffing tainted ales all across the capital. In my mind’s eye I saw the slime seethe in the flagons, saw the terror in the drinkers’ eyes as the contagion took them and started to feed. The fear of the consequences strengthened my resolve. I moved further inside.

A cloud moved. Suddenly moonlight washed through the hall from above. It made my search somewhat easier. I found nothing around the nearer of the two vats and almost relaxed. That all changed when I rounded the third vat and almost walked into a mist of green luminescence. As I moved closer I saw that it rose from a body on the floor — the remains of what had been a man, but was now a seething mass of green protoplasm. The slime seemed to notice my presence and began to slump and flow over the brewery floor, moving so quickly that I was forced to take several steps backwards.

My retreat was halted as the luminescence swelled and flared, engulfing me in a globe of dancing light. At once I felt calm, almost serene. Shadows flitted around me, wraiths made of little more than thin green fog. I felt no fear, no compulsion to run — merely the innocent curiosity of a child. I stepped forward towards the rolling carpet of green.

The arrival of my friend Sherlock Holmes saved my life. All he did was place a hand on my shoulder, but that was sufficient to break the spell under which I had been placed. I looked down to see the green slime merely inches from my brogues and getting closer.

Holmes stepped forward and threw a handful of white powder over the green carpet. It immediately retreated, black pustules bubbling and bursting across the surface. My eyes started to sting and water. Holmes turned and smiled grimly, showing me another handful of white powder.

“Caustic soda,” he said. “It seems to be efficacious.”

He wore a canvas satchel over his shoulder. It gaped wide, showing it to be crammed full with the powder. Before I could inquire further Holmes strode away from me, following the retreating slime.

“Come Watson,” he called. “Let us beard Grendel in his lair.”

I followed, keeping a safe distance from the scattering of lye.

The slime dragged itself away before the powder. A high, fluting cacophony echoed and whistled around us, as if the bubbling pustules screamed in agony. Within seconds Holmes had the remains of the creature cornered under the copper vat in the leftmost rear of the brewery.

Holmes continued to throw handfuls of lye, at the same time calling out to me over his shoulder.

“Watson. I have need of your old pen-knife.”

I moved forward, following Holmes’ gaze. There was a large dent in the tun just above head height. Deep inside was a small lump of darker material, like a pebble embedded in the copper.

I took out my knife and started to work the lump free while Holmes kept the carpet of slime at bay. I was so intent on my task I did not notice the new arrivals on the brewery floor, only becoming aware of them when Holmes called out in despair.

“No. Not yet!”

I managed to free the pebble and dropped it into my waistcoat pocket. I turned to see three men clad in oilskins standing behind Holmes. They each carried long hoses and were spraying the floor all around. Suddenly the place smelled less like a brewery and more like a hospital as soap and bleach washed over our feet.

My brogues were ruined, as were Holmes’ leather boots, but he had not yet noticed. His gaze was fixed on a drain in the center of the floor. It sat in a slight dip, so that all spillage would flow towards it. The pressure from the hoses washed across the slime and sent it sailing in bubbling foam.

“Stop!” Holmes called, but it was too late. The last hint of the green substance disappeared down to the sewers below.

We found Lestrade out in the street coordinating proceedings. The hosing down of the brewery went on for several hours while we stood outside, smoking and keeping an eye out for any return of either the slime or the luminescence. After a time Lestrade announced himself satisfied and called off the clear up. Holmes proved harder to satisfy. He insisted on waiting until almost dawn, spending the intervening hours stalking the floor and peering in every corner of the brewery. Twice he asked to see the pebble I had dug from the vat. Both times he returned it to me with a grunt of displeasure. The sun was throwing an orange tinge across the sky before I was finally able to persuade him to leave.

He said nothing in the carriage on the journey to Baker Street, merely sat, elbows on his thighs and fingers steepled at his lips, deep in thought.

Mrs. Hudson ministered to our hunger, providing a hearty breakfast that I took to with gusto. Holmes scarcely ate a mouthful. He had already taken the pebble from me, and pored over it intently, subjecting it to a variety of assays and investigations. By the time I finished my breakfast he seemed to have come to some conclusions. He called me over and handed me a magnifying lens.

“I believe we have found our source,” he said to me. I immediately saw what he meant. The pebble was a small rough stone. Holmes had managed to slice it in half and I looked down at the inner hemisphere. There was a small hollow almost dead center, hardly bigger than my little finger nail. It carried the barest tinge of green.

“The stone itself is mostly iron,” Holmes said. “With a trace of nickel. I do believe you are holding your first visitor from beyond this world.”

After that Holmes seemed to settle somewhat. We sat by the fire and lit our pipes. He repeatedly quizzed me on my experience inside the luminescence.

“It was dashed peculiar Holmes,” I said. “I have experienced something similar before, while watching a Swami perform the rope trick in Delhi, but even there I felt in control. This time it felt like my very will had been drained from me. If you had not intervened, I do believe I would have given myself to it.”