Gaslight Arcanum: Uncanny Tales of Sherlock Holmes

heard the seemingly miraculous story that a man had been rendered somehow immortal I raced here. It occurred to me that Barstow in his diving bell had stumbled upon a remarkable place on the ocean bed that had the power to keep death at bay.”

“And you came here for the sake of the little girl?”

“Yes, Watson, but what did I find? A woman that has the power to project a sick fantasy from her mind and cause murder. For a few short hours I had truly believed I might have a distinct chance of saving little Edith’s life. However…” He gave a long, grave sigh. “Alas, Watson. Alas…”

* * * * *

SIMON CLARK lives in Doncaster, England with his family. When his first novel, Nailed by the Heart, made it through the slush-pile in 1994 he banked the advance and embarked upon his dream of becoming a full-time writer. Many dreams and nightmares later he wrote the cult zombie classic Blood Crazy. Other titles include Darkness Demands, Vengeance Child and The Night of the Triffids, which continues the story of Wyndham’s Sci-Fi classic.

Simon’s latest novel is Whitby Vampyrrhic, a decidedly gruesome and ultra-violent horror-thriller set in World War Two.

The Greatest Mystery

by Paul Kane

My dear and faithful reader. It is only now that I am able to recount the truly shocking events of what I firmly believe to be my dearest friend and colleague Sherlock Holmes’ greatest ever mystery. Upon first reading these words, you may feel my claim is somewhat of an exaggeration. What about the case of the Baskerville Hound, you might ask, quite possibly his most famous adventure to date? What about his entanglements with the evil Professor Moriarty (the merest mention of which will later have great significance, I can assure you)? But I have faithfully chronicled the master detective’s cases over the years and I can categorically attest to the validity of my statement. I alone was witness to its eventual outcome and, once you have finished this offering, I feel certain that you too will agree about the choice of title. I can also promise that while I have been taken to task in the past for what Holmes called my embellishment of these accounts — the addition of, to quote the man himself, ‘color and … life’ (the latter an irony, as you will soon see) — there is not a word of this that is not the whole truth. Whether you believe me or not is, in the end, your choice — all I can do is report the facts of this most singular case as I experienced them, no matter how strange they might seem.

The matter in question began with a simple case — although you might recall the air of strangeness and tension against which it was set, in the months approaching the turn of the century. Indeed, these very events were thought by some to be interlinked, though you will soon realize that this was not in fact so. The real explanation goes beyond that, beyond anything you might have thought possible. But I am getting ahead of myself once more…. The case in hand was an apparently straightforward crime, yet as Holmes is often at great pains to teach me, things are seldom what they appear at first glance.

And so, to the details. A lady by the name of Miss Georgia Cartwright called upon us one afternoon in late September, begging that we pay a visit to her cousin Simon.

“In jail,” Holmes said, motioning for Miss Cartwright to sit down. When he noticed her look of confusion, he waved a hand and explained: “The faint marks on your dress and your arms, a distinctive pattern showing you have recently been pressed up against a set of iron bars…. Pray tell us of what your cousin is accused, Miss Cartwright?”

“I am sad to say Simon stands accused of … of … murdering his fiancee, and my best friend, Miss Judith Hatten,” she told us, gratefully accepting a seat as well as a handkerchief; the latter to dry her eyes. “But he couldn’t have … he simply could not.”

Holmes sat down opposite her, steepling his fingers. “If you would furnish me with the facts, Miss Cartwright, and please do not leave anything out. Even the smallest detail might be of significance.”

Sadly, it soon became clear, as she related what she knew, that the culprit could be none other than her relation. The night before last, Simon had visited Judith to discuss their forthcoming wedding. Upon hearing a disturbance in the living room, where Simon had been escorted only minutes beforehand, the girl’s only living parent — her father — discovered the young man standing over the body of Judith. The young lady had suffered a tremendous head wound. In Simon’s hand was a poker, dripping with blood. Mr. Hatten flew into a fury and had to be held back by his staff from attacking Simon himself, while Miss Cartwright’s cousin was held down until the authorities arrived.

Holmes frowned, obviously reaching the same conclusion as I.

“He swears it was not him … says that he cannot remember what happened, Mr. Holmes. And I believe him. Simon is the gentlest man in the world and he did so love Judith. I know he did. He would never have raised a finger to hurt her.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “It is so often the case, however, that we do not truly know our friends and loved ones Miss Cartwright.”

“We grew up together and were as close as brother and sister. I do know him, Mr. Holmes. Please, I implore you,” she said, clasping her hands together. “Visit him yourself.”

Holmes glanced sideways, attempting not to let this sway his judgement, but in spite of his somewhat cool exterior, my friend has never been able to turn away anyone in such distress. Yet I have seen him reject far more intriguing investigations, so something about this particular case must have piqued his interest. I wish to God now, looking back, that he’d had the courage to simply inform Miss Cartwright he could not help. If that sounds harsh, believe me, it will not by the time I have finished this tale.

So it was that we found ourselves in a coach on our way to see her cousin at Scotland Yard’s ‘charming’ prison. The journey at least afforded me some time to glean Holmes’ thoughts about the case.

“Surely it would be wrong to get the young woman’s hopes up,” I told him. “The man’s destined for the noose. There might not have been witnesses to the actual deed, but being caught with the murder weapon in one’s possession implies just as much guilt.”

Holmes steadfastly refused to be drawn on the matter until we’d seen the prisoner for ourselves. When we arrived and asked to see the man, Inspector Lestrade similarly conveyed the opinion that my friend was wasting his time.

“I can not understand why Miss Cartwright has brought you into such an affair,” said the sly-looking policeman. “There was nothing untoward in the investigation, I can assure you, Mr. Holmes.” His tone was defensive, as if he thought we were criticising his procedure. Nevertheless, he granted us full access to the man, in part because of all the help Holmes has been to the police in his career — often without due credit — but I think also because he was confident enough that nothing we discovered would make him look inferior to his men. “The father is baying for the man’s blood,” Lestrade called after us, as if he thought that might change our minds.

The young prisoner had a haunted look about him. He was staring at the stone wall opposite, and from time to time just shook his head as if he could not comprehend how he had arrived in this dark, dank place.

“Your cousin Georgia has asked that we speak with you,” Holmes said, after making our introductions, but could elicit no response.

“She tells us that you deny any wrongdoing in the murder of Miss Judith Hatten,” said I, at which I did notice a twitch of his eye. Then, suddenly, he was holding his head in his hands, tearing at his hair.

“I did not murder her,” he whispered, almost inaudibly, then screamed: “I did not murder her!” Simon looked across at us, eyes as tearful as his cousin’s were but an hour earlier. “P-Please… Please, you have to believe me…”

Holmes stepped closer to the bars. “Then tell us who did.”

Simon shook his head again, but it wasn’t a refusal; it was simply that he had no idea what to say. What could he say, when all the evidence pointed towards him? He would say nothing more, even when pressed, and we left not long afterwards — Holmes informing the guard on duty that he should be watched.