Sherlock Holmes vs. Cthulhu The Adventure of the Deadly Dimensions E-Book

Lois H. Gresh

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

A series of grisly murders rocks London. At each location, only a jumble of bones remains of the deceased, along with a bizarre sphere covered in strange symbols. The son of the latest victim seeks the help of Sherlock Holmes and his former partner, Dr. John Watson. They discover the common thread tying together the murders. Bizarre geometries, based on ancient schematics, enable otherworldly creatures to enter our dimension, seeking to wreak havoc and destruction. The persons responsible are gaining so much power that even Holmes's greatest enemy fears them - to the point that he seeks an unholy alliance.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Also available from Titan Books and Lois H. Gresh

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue: Amos Beiler

Part One: The Infernal Machine

1: DR. John Watson

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

Part Two: The Crest of Dagon

12: Jamison Ludsthorpe

13: Amelia Scarcliffe

14: DR. John Watson

15

16

17

18

19: Lord Wiltshram

20: Peter Smythe-Barton

21: DR. John Watson

22

23

24

25

26: Koenraad Thwaite

27: Peter Smythe-Barton

28: DR. John Watson

29: Marceau Poisson

Part Three: Casta Diva

30: DR. John Watson

31: DR. John Watson

32

33: Khan’aloa Khu Tu Tangh’aroa XII

34: DR. John Watson

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

Epilogue: Koenraad Thwaite

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also available from Titan Books and Lois H. Gresh

The Adventure of the Neural Psychoses (2018)

The Adventure of the Innsmouth Mutations (2019)

THE ADVENTURE OF THE DEADLY DIMENSIONSPrint edition ISBN: 9781785652080Electronic edition ISBN: 9781785652097

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: July 20172 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 by Lois H. Gresh. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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DEDICATED WITH LOVE TO ARIE BODEKAND BIG DADDY SAM

WITH GRATITUDE TO ARTHUR CONAN DOYLEAND H.P. LOVECRAFT

PROLOGUE

AMOS BEILER

October 1890, Avebury, Wiltshire

The chair was a masterpiece of dimensions. I wanted to wake Kristoffer, my son, so he could see it, but he was fast asleep in the house.

Someday he would create a Beiler masterpiece of his own, and then he would stand here instead of me, chant the words, and unleash all that is wondrous and beautiful in the world. But not now.

This was my time.

One more tweak, and it would be ready.

My hands shook from excitement. I rubbed them together, warming them. Then I removed my spectacles, brushing the blood from my forehead, and placed them carefully on the work bench next to the ancient instructions. How would my brethren react when they learned what I’d done? Would they rejoice, would they worship me?

Would the Old Ones finally return?

Would I be the one to open the gate?

I snapped my braces once against my work shirt. Dear Amelia had embroidered the yellow leopards at the tops of the straps, and it had become tradition to snap them as I finished a particularly important piece of furniture. Perhaps the sting against my chest jarred me into the moment.

Poor Amelia was long gone, had died terribly fifteen years ago. It was right after I’d finished the cherry divan for Lord Wiltshram. I’d not built a divan since.

Grasping the corner of the chair, I fitted a bracket to it. The screw turned easily, securing the seat to the front leg. On my braces the leopards growled, the sound coming from low in their throats. I stroked them.

Soon, I thought. Soon all will be revealed.

Outside, the wind slammed the barn from all sides. It was a particularly harsh night. The walls quaked. The door clattered against its frame. Rain pounded, and the storm howled. No doubt the leaves would be stripped from the trees by morning. Given the nature of what was to come, it would be a miracle if the trees still stood at all.

The rafters groaned as if in pain.

“The time is now!” I said, my voice rising to a scream. “Come, I release you. Come!”

Even more than before, the ceiling creaked and the lantern flickered wildly. A wooden beam broke and smashed to the floor, maimed and severed from above. It writhed upon the floor—writhed—and then it shuddered a final time and died. Shards of wood rained down and stabbed me, then bullets of water. One hit the middle of my forehead. I cringed, shook my head, blinked…

And then I looked up. The black hole of night yawned over me. Its lips stretched, wider and wider. From its maw came the water, a powerful rush streaming through the hole in the ceiling. It ricocheted off the walls and splashed against my face, mixing with my blood and soaking into my shirt.

Struck by a powerful gust of wind, I fell against a wall. The chair clattered to the floor. A spasm of pain tore at my chest. I clutched it, fearing the worst.

Not now!

Over on the work bench, the oil lamp sputtered and almost went out, then crackled back to life. Abruptly the hole above me withered. The rain petered to a drip.

Quickly I regained my senses. I dove for the chair, grasped it, and dragged it to a corner of the room. It was such fine ash, the angles carved with perfect precision. There was no other chair like it, not anywhere in the world. Stepping over to the battered table by the door, I snatched up a rag then scooted back to the chair and wiped the water off its limbs.

Then I returned to my work bench to consult the diagrams that had passed down countless generations to me. We were the Beilers, the finest woodworkers and craftsmen in all of England. Our pieces had dovetail joints, smooth finishes, and intricate etchings that no other man had ever been able to duplicate.

The drawings and symbols were so ancient they were written on yellowed animal hide and inked in the maroon of old blood. In the top left corner of the hide was the image of a table adorned with elaborate symbols.

Twenty years ago, I made that table and gave it to Lord and Lady Ashberton of Avebury. Ten years ago, I made the cedar chest, hinged it just so, and carved the symbols in ordained arrangements on the inner surfaces.

I’d left the chair for last. It was the most difficult of the three items described on the hide. The symbols were so complex that it had taken me months to create them, often using tools of my own making.

Now I stared at my creation. It was perfect. The etchings rose in bas relief, they curled and whirled, they overlapped. The symbols reached through my eyes into my brain. They tapped into that place where my soul fluttered.

I scooped a metal plate from my work bench, then crouched in front of the chair. My fingers caressed the symbols I’d burned into the plate. Heat flowed from the symbols down my arm and crackled into my brain. I let the warmth rise over and through me, let it crash down like waves.

Now was the time.

Steadying myself as best I could, I nailed the plate to the chair exactly at the midpoint between the two ends of the brace. With shaking hands, I lifted the ancient instructions, uttered the syllables inked at the bottom of the animal hide. I had no idea if my pronunciation was correct, for the letters were alien to me. I just did my best, based on what my father and grandfather had taught me.

As I chanted the words, I imagined the faces of my brethren, gazing at me with wonder, mesmerized by my mastery.

“Q’ulsi pertaggen fh’thagn daghon da’agon f’hthul’rahi roa,” I intoned.

The oil lamp sputtered.

“Q’ulsi fh’thagn perhagen n’creechilckcklon.”

The light flashed a bright yellow. I cringed and squeezed my eyes shut, but still I continued from memory.

“Q’ulsi cantatro’f’b’f’w’l’lllllccckkkkk!”

A bright light burned through my right eyelid. Pain exploded in my brain and careened around my skull. My eye sizzled. Clutching my face, I sank to my knees, suppressing a scream. My right eye felt as if it had boiled over. Liquid oozed down my cheek.

I gagged as the bile surged in my throat. The world slipped in and out of existence. Toppling over, I rolled to my side, hands clawing my forehead and cheeks, fingers smeared with the ooze of my eye.

My left eye snapped open, and I saw the abomination. Instantly I knew it would have been better not to have seen it.

The entire chair throbbed. The etched symbols beat like a thousand hearts. Light shattered the black of the room, overwhelming the flickering lamp. Above me, the maw yawned again, stretching greater than before, lips pulled back into the night. The rain resumed, dripping like saliva. The stars, shining through the downpour, were sharp, sharp teeth. Descending. Coming closer.

And then came the eyes. Glowing. Red. Of such dimensions I cannot describe them. Like the eyes of a million insects glued into one, yet unlike the eyes of any creature I’d ever seen. Eyes that pulsed in time with the chair. Eyes that bore down upon me, and within their depths throbbed the symbols, the horrible symbols I’d carved.

Eyes, infinite eyes…

PART ONE

THE INFERNAL MACHINE

1

DR. JOHN WATSON

October 1890, London

The night murmured. Leaves tossed themselves to the wet cobblestones of Baker Street. The overhead lamps leaked a yellow that made the raindrops spark like fireflies. It was good to be back with my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes, even if I was only visiting for the evening, and soon would return to Mary and our newborn son, Samuel.

I peered pensively from the window, as was my custom. Holmes smoked his pipe and riffled through the newspapers. Despite my mood, I felt at home with the dense smoke, the crackle of the paper, and Holmes’s derisive snorts as he scanned the articles.

“Why, look at this, Watson,” he said. “Four more are dead in the East End. Eviscerated, all of them. In each case, the police find their bones heaped into bizarre configurations. The intestines, brains, and limbs are smeared around the scene. According to the reports, the bodies look half eaten. I’d say this is even more grotesque than Jack the Ripper.” He paused. “Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard has no comment about possible suspects.”

“Yes, I’ve been following the case.” I flipped back my coat-tails and settled into the armchair across from Holmes. Though the warmth from the fireplace seeped through my damp clothes and into my skin, I shivered slightly. Holmes pursed his lips, then tapped his pipe twice on the stem and puffed. Releasing the smoke in curls, he crossed his legs. He was excited by the mysterious events in the area of London he visited when desperate for opium. I knew his excitement meant he would have no need for the needle and drugs he kept hidden in the mahogany box in his desk.

“What do you make of it, then?” he asked.

As a medical doctor, I’d seen a lot of corpses, but never anything as gruesome as what was described in the newspapers. “The strangest aspect, Holmes, is how they say the bones are heaped. The geometries differ, but the precision is always exacting, and inside each stack of bones is a bizarre—”

“Yes, the spherical objects.” Holmes narrowed his eyes. “Each is about 30 centimeters in diameter and apparently composed of bone, chiseled with arcane symbols that differ from object to object. Each has a hole the size of an eye, and if you look through that hole, you can see the opposite side of the sphere. Engraved there is a single symbol that also differs in each case. Most intriguing, wouldn’t you say?”

“The press jokes that a killer mathematician is on the loose.” In spite of myself I suppressed a chuckle. “I somehow doubt it. Killers tend not to be found among the ranks of the Oxford Club.”

“Indeed, they don’t, and besides, these symbols aren’t mathematical. They’re something quite different, Watson.” Holmes leaned toward me, and his elbow jostled the small gothic revival table that stood by his chair. His cup jittered on the saucer, but he seemed not to notice. He was in that state of mind he entered when focused on a problem.

To keep my thoughts clear, I had to look away from his gaze.

“The fact that the corpses appear to be half eaten leads me to think that perhaps the killer is—” I hesitated and glanced at Holmes. What I was about to suggest seemed absurd. “I know this sounds odd, but the killer might be a cannibal.”

I braced myself.

But Watson, he would say, if there were cannibals in London, I would have been informed before now. His eyes would light with amusement, then he would say, Think more carefully. You’re missing the obvious.

Yet Holmes surprised me by taking the notion seriously.

“This isn’t a cannibal, my dear fellow,” he said. “No, not at all. Consider. There are no tooth marks on the bones. No gnawing. No knife marks. No bullet wounds—indeed, no bullets ever found at the scenes. And the spherical bones, the weird symbols, Watson. It’s all quite perplexing.”

“Do you have any notions about it?”

“The only tangible fact is that all the murders took place in the East End, where crime is rampant. Police found three corpses in an alley next to the building that runs the new tram system. The fourth corpse was inside the building. I admit, Watson, that I’m puzzled. It is a challenge.” He peered at me with enough intensity that I began to feel uncomfortable. “I see that you’ve been performing surgery this evening and that it didn’t go well.”

At first, I couldn’t reply. It was true. This was why I’d sought Holmes’s familiar companionship before heading home to Mary and Samuel. Whatever was on Holmes’s mind, be it chemistry or numerology or crime, I’d hoped it would take my mind off the day’s work. Yet I wondered how he knew about the surgery. Since my war service, I only performed surgery during emergencies. Today, I’d encountered such an emergency, and there’d been no time to get my patient to a hospital. I’d attempted to save him as best as I could.

“What makes you say that I performed surgery?” I finally asked.

“The smell of disinfectant you use on your hands after surgery.”

Feeling slightly ridiculous, I lifted both hands and sniffed.

“But I smell nothing!”

“That is because you’ve had it on your hands for an extended time, and hence in your nostrils. You can no longer smell it as I can.”

Quite true, I thought, but I pressed on.

“Perhaps I simply washed my hands with disinfectant,” I countered. “That wouldn’t require me to perform surgery, would it?”

“Ah, the fact that you don’t deny it speaks volumes—I think you toy with me,” Holmes said. “Remember, I know your habits. When you arrived fifteen minutes ago, Mrs. Hudson took your hat. It was then that I deduced that you’d recently removed your surgical mask.”

My perplexed expression prompted him to explain.

“When you wear a surgical mask, the ties that hold it to your head tend to mat your hair. This is what I saw.”

At that, I was forced to surrender.

“I concede that you’re correct,” I admitted. “There was, indeed, an operation. Yet how did you know it didn’t go well?”

“Watson, your patient died on the table.” Holmes frowned, then rose, turned his back to me, and set his pipe on the mantel. For a moment, I couldn’t bring myself to speak, but then it all rushed out.

“I did everything I could to save his life,” I said, “and yes, I failed. Mr. Travelston’s body was too weak to endure the knife. His wife was hysterical afterward. I had to console her. It was all so horrible. She has four small children and no means. She’ll be destitute, and it’s all my fault.”

Holmes turned. His expression softened.

“I am sorry,” he said. “You’re a good man, Watson.”

I usually keep my emotions in check, and rarely do I let death bother me. Mr. Travelston was different, though. I’d been late to my practice that morning, having enjoyed a sumptuous breakfast with Mary and Samuel while a poor man languished, half dead, hoping for a miracle.

“But how did you know that he had died?” I asked softly.

“Please accept my apology, dear Watson. I can’t help myself when it comes to these matters. I deduce. Logic is all.” I nodded, and he continued. “Your fingers are smeared with ink, dear fellow. I know you to be a meticulous man. When you write details about a patient’s demise and issue a death certificate, you’re always very careful, and then you wash your hands thoroughly. Rarely have I seen you so smudged in ink.”

“Indeed, I made a mess of it, and neglected to wash my hands at all,” I admitted. “Then I hurried here to Baker Street.”

“Indeed, and yet, Watson, that’s not what really revealed to me that the man had died. The disinfectant, the surgical mask, the ink, they were only minor clues.” Again that gaze. “You see, dear fellow, I know you well. You’re generally of good cheer, and rarely so moody. You only get this way if a patient dies, and you hold yourself responsible.

“So I know that your patient died,” he concluded, “because I know you.”

He was right, of course. I stared at the dance of the flames in the fireplace. More than anything I wanted to forget Mr. Travelston, his wife, and his four young children.

A rap sounded on the outer door. The sound of footsteps, and Mrs. Hudson called from the hallway.

“Mr. Holmes! There’s a visitor for you. He says it’s urgent. Shall I let him in?”

“Yes, come upstairs!” Holmes said. “And you will stay, Watson?”

“Of course.” I was relieved to have a diversion.

Soon Mrs. Hudson trundled into the room. Her face was weary, and gray hair straggled from her bun. She’d been the housekeeper at 221B Baker Street for as long as I could remember. She was here when Holmes and I first rented these rooms, years before I met my wife and moved across town. She stepped aside and allowed what looked like a soggy tramp into Holmes’s flat.

Holmes surveyed the man and sniffed.

“And what can I do for you, sir?” he asked.

“Will you be wanting tea, then, Mr. Holmes?” Mrs. Hudson interjected, her nose wrinkled with distaste.

He flicked his fingers.

“Please go, Mrs. Hudson,” he said brusquely. “Now.”

A flush bloomed on her cheeks. Flustered but accustomed to his behavior, she did as requested.

Holmes stared intently at the man as if deciding his fate, then abruptly gestured to a chair by the fireplace. The fellow smelled as if he hadn’t bathed for months. He wore rags caked in grease and dirt, the cloth stiff. As he fell onto the chair and slouched forward, the seat squished and I cringed.

Holmes perched on a stool by his chemistry bench, where burbled a red-tinted liquid. Numerous microscopy slides littered the surface of the table along with rumpled papers, beakers, and glass tubes. He had written many chemistry monographs, most dealing with esoteric subjects understood by few people in the world, and absently I wondered what he was up to this time.

“The murders,” the tramp muttered. “The bones.”

Instantly, Holmes snapped to attention. His eyes grew keen.

“Ah, you know something about these bizarre deaths, then,” he said. “Pray tell all, such that I can solve this tremendous riddle that puzzles Scotland Yard’s finest.” He remained rigid, awaiting the man’s response.

“What brings you out on a night like this?” I asked as kindly as I could. The man cocked his head, and only my experience with the desperately ill kept me from openly displaying shock at his appearance.

He was no more than twenty-five years old, but balding with his scalp splotched brown. Yellow skin sagged on his cheekbones and chin. When he blinked, strings of pus changed shape in his eyes. The knuckle of his right forefinger constantly jabbed at his nostrils. A nervous tic, I presumed, and most distracting. One nostril was much larger than the other, making his nose appear as if a wrench had twisted it so far that the bones had broken.

“I tell you why I’m ’ere,” he said, and his voice was broken, as well. When he spoke, I could see that he’d lost several teeth. “Me dad spent ’is life buildin’ the machine. Me mum and sisters died early. The machine, it does bad things, it does.”

Interest flared in Holmes’s eyes.

“Ah yes, the machine,” he said encouragingly. “I see. Do you understand, Watson?”

I shook my head, for I hadn’t a clue what the man was talking about. Holmes slicked back his hair, and his chin tilted slightly upward. Directed at our visitor, his words came clipped and fast.

“You are Willie Jacobs, the man who runs the experimental tram line in the East End. Am I right?”

“Why, yes, that is absolutely correct, Mr. ’olmes.”

“Your tram runs via a steam-powered engine, as proved by the grease on your clothes and skin. You work long hours, and rarely leave the building where you tend to this machine. This I know from your complexion, which is sallow from lack of sun.” He paused, then continued. “You’re a bachelor, as no wife would allow her husband to go so long without bathing. Most important, you’re the man who discovered one of the corpses in the East End. The police found the other three. Am I right again?”

“Indeed, you are correct on all accounts.” Willie Jacobs’s eyes widened, and the pus strings stretched thin. His right hand dropped from his nostrils to his lap.

“You’re a man of resources,” Holmes added, leaning forward. “You would have to be, in order to engage in such an experimental endeavor, yet you spend none of your wealth on yourself. Now you’ve come to request my services regarding these violent murders of four individuals, all known to you, I presume.

“Judging from the accounts, the attacks are swift, and no one ever sees the attacker. It’s as if people are there one minute, then gutted and murdered the next, their remains an horrific mess of stacked bones, odd spherical objects, and bloody gore.”

Willie Jacobs flinched. Astonishment swept across his face, and tears sprang into his eyes.

“The dead people seem to have nothing in common other than that three were found in the alley next to your building and the other was—my condolences, sir—your father, Mr. Theodore Jacobs.” Holmes straightened again. “Is this correct, Mr. Jacobs?”

At this, our visitor slumped forward, head in his hands and shoulders heaving. I began to move toward him, but Holmes shook his head and flicked his fingers at me, so I settled back into my chair.

Jacobs drew himself back up and wiped his nose on a dirty sleeve.

“Mr. ’olmes, you are me only ’ope!” he wailed. His whole body quivered, and his legs shook uncontrollably. “They’ll be wantin’ me for murder! Murder of me own dad! But it wasn’t me. It’s the machine that’s the killer! I know it, and the machine knows it, too.”

“Why, come now, Mr. Jacobs, you’re distraught,” I said. “That’s understandable, but seriously, sir, a machine doesn’t know what it’s doing, nor can it have malicious intent. Surely, there are no witnesses who saw your machine kill anyone.”

“Nobody saw nothin’,” Jacobs spat out, “but I know, and I tell you, the machine knows!” His right hand flew to his nose, the knuckles jabbing wildly at his nostrils.

“Pull yourself together, sir,” I said, not knowing quite what to do or say. “Please,” I added.

Holmes waited a moment, then spoke.

“Tell me where you got the money to buy the fancy whiskey I smell on your breath,” he said. “It isn’t ordinary swill.”

Our visitor didn’t acknowledge Holmes’s question.

“M-me dad ’eard about the new electric trams they built up in Blackpool,” he said. “’e searched for days, and dug out the drawin’s gifted from me great-great-great grandfather, passed down through our family, and they tol’ ’im ’ow to build a machine. A steam-powered giant. Me dad called it the beast.”

“Your great-great-great grandfather,” Holmes replied. “I see… Yet that would have been a long time ago, Mr. Jacobs. Long indeed before such machines could have been built, or even dreamed of.”

“But me ancestors ’ad the drawin’s,” the wretched man protested. “I swear they did. I’ve seen them, and you’d ’ave to be a master o’ machinery to interpret them. To anyone who’s not good with mechanical things, the diagrams would appear as nonsense.” He cocked his head and blinked.

I didn’t have to look at Holmes to guess what he was thinking. For me, it was simple logic. Even if the drawings existed—and we had no evidence of that—they couldn’t be of the age the man asserted. More disturbing was his claim that the tram machine had killed his father. Such a statement might be designed to hide his own guilt, or it might be the raving of a madman.

Either that, or Willie Jacobs had drunk too much of that fancy whiskey Holmes had noticed.

Another thought occurred to me.

“Why was the machine constructed in so poor a section of town?” I asked. “The newest luxuries typically come to those of greatest wealth first. Who financed the construction of the tram system where you live, Mr. Jacobs?”

“Excellent question, Watson.” Holmes gestured for our visitor to answer. Abruptly he turned his back on the man, shut his eyes, and waited for the response. He could be curt and even rude at times, but it was all part of his method, which I knew required his keenest focus.

“Me dad was me only livin’ relative.” Jacobs let loose a sob. “I don’t know what I’ll do without ’im. I don’t know ’ow to work the beast on me own.”

I moved to squeeze Jacobs’s shoulder, striving not to wince at the touch. “Please, sir,” I said gently, “you must tell us everything as concisely as you can.” Then I crouched beside his chair. “I know this is hard, but I promise, we will help you. If anyone can help you, it is Mr. Holmes.”

The pus-filled eyes blinked at me. His knuckles jabbed and jabbed at his nostrils. I pretended not to notice.

“After ’e found the diagrams, me dad spent all ’is wakin’ hours frettin’ over the beast,” Jacobs said. “We was too poor for ’im to build it, and ’e’d get mad and shout and break things. Then all o’ a sudden, one day ’e came and tol’ me that someone ’ad offered to finance the experiments. ’e was as ’appy as I’d ever seen ’im.”

“And who made this offer to your father?” Holmes asked.

A long pause.

“Don’t know.”

“Of course you know,” Holmes barked, and the man flinched. “Tell me, sir, or you can leave now.”

“I don’t know,” Jacobs whined. “’e might cut me off for sayin’.”

Holmes stared intently at the man. A smile twitched on his lips.

“And the bones you recently found, the ones reported in today’s newspaper?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Willie Jacobs pulled something from his jacket pocket. It was all I could do not to gasp with amazement. In his hand he held a sphere such as the one described in the newspapers—of bone and covered in chiseled symbols. Over and over, the same pattern repeated.

“May I have it, sir?” Holmes didn’t wait for the answer. He grabbed a cloth from his chemistry table and plucked the object from the man’s hand. When Jacobs began to protest, Holmes silenced him with a gesture, then gently laid it on the table. Lifting his magnifying glass, he peered at the chiseled symbols. “Most curious. A bone the size of a man’s hand and yet round like a ball. How did you obtain this object?”

“The beast killed me dad last night,” Jacobs said. “We sleep in the machine room, me dad and me. On blankets on the floor. I awoke to an awful sound, a keenin’, a shriekin’ like I’ve only ’eard in me most ’orrifyin’ nightmares.” He shuddered, then continued. “But I woke to it, and it was real. Me dad was there before me, and ’e was wavin’ ’is arms, screamin’ those awful words again.”

“And what words are those, Mr. Jacobs?”

“The ones ’e screams when ’e thinks I don’t ’ear. Words I can’t speak, and not in any language I’ve ever known. Low, growlin’ noises like rabid dogs make. Wails like creatures dyin’. Shrill sounds ’igher than any bird. All o’ it, floodin’ out o’ me dad’s mouth and pourin’ over me like the sounds o’… like you might think a jungle sounds.”

For a moment, he was silent.

“Your father made all this noise?” I asked.

“’e did.” The man nodded, and the horror of the memory was plain on his face.

“And then?” I asked.

“Me dad fell to ’is knees. I tried to leap from me blankets to try and ’elp him, but I couldn’t move. The air was too ’eavy and too ’ot. It pinned me to the floor. I nearly passed out while I watched, not able to do nothin’, as me dad’s body bent farther and farther back from his knees until… until…” The poor man broke off and buried his face in his hands, weeping.

This time, Holmes reached out and placed a hand on Jacobs’s shoulder. He shot me a glance.

I rose, ready to get the brandy.

“Perhaps, Mr. Jacobs, you need a rest before continuing,” I said gently.

With shaking hands, Jacobs waved us away.

“No! If you are to ’elp me, you must know all. This is what you tol’ me.” He looked up, tears and grease streaming down his cheeks. He clasped his hands together, and with his intertwined knuckles, jabbed wildly at his nostrils.

Holmes moved to his chemistry bench, and rested his elbows on it. His eyes flicked from Jacobs to me and back again.

“Then let us get to the end of it, shall we?” he said. “Pray continue.”

Jacobs peered at the ceiling. “Me dad bent back like I tol’ you, as if somethin’ was pushin’ ’im. ’e screamed those accursed words until ’e choked. ’e stopped just as… just as ’is knees broke. ’e fell back, face twisted in pain, and then ’is face caved in, just smashed like it was nothin’ more than a pancake. Me dad’s eyes—” Jacobs broke off again and shuddered. “Me dad’s eyes exploded. Blood everywhere. Skin ripped, bones where ’is face used to be, teeth where ’is mouth used to be.”

This poor man, I thought. Whatever Willie Jacobs had seen, it had been awful. “And then?” I asked.

Jacobs’s face tipped higher toward the ceiling, and his fingers moved rapidly against his enlarged nostril. Holmes caught my eye, and we both shook our heads. The man was clearly out of his mind. He’d seen something in that machine room, and his father had died. Yes, all of this rang true. Yet the description of his father’s death made little sense, and the man was a complete wreck.

“And then?” I managed to ask again.

Jacobs snapped his head back down and looked at me. His hands dropped from his face. I stared levelly at him, keeping my face straight.

“I saw what I saw,” Jacobs said. “Me dad’s face was no more. Shadows started writhin’ in the corners o’ the room, and they met in the middle o’ the beast. They came out o’ the beast stronger and darker. They curled and split into bizarre shapes like nothin’ I’ve ever seen. Me dad was dead, ’is body like a pulpy mess on the floor, a mound o’ bones and skin and blood.

“Me ’ead pounded, it ’urt from the weight o’ the air upon me and from the terrible sights before me. I ’ad to shut me eyes. And when the air finally lifted, I opened them, and all was as I tol’ you. All that was left o’ me dad was a stack o’ bones with this sphere in it. Then another sphere rolled off the bones, maybe more, I don’t know… And ’is body… just entrails and… and gore…”

Jacobs’s voice trailed off.

“Did you see anyone?” Holmes asked. “An intruder?”

“No.”

“Was there any evidence that someone else had been in the building last night?”

Jacobs shook his head. “No.”

Holmes paused. I kept quiet, knowing not to interrupt his train of thought.

“And hence, Mr. Jacobs, you deduced that it was the machine that killed your father?”

Jacobs didn’t answer.

“Has the building experienced any ventilation problems recently, any change in the air flow?” Holmes asked.

“No.”

“Other than you and your father, has anyone else worked on the machine recently?”

“Ne’er. Only me and me dad. Nobody’s allowed in the buildin’ but me and me dad.” Jacobs slumped so far over that I feared he might fall from the chair.

Holmes gestured at me, and I ran to pour brandy from the flask we kept on Holmes’s desk. As I poured the liquid, I noticed the hypodermic needle in the open drawer. At the tip of the needle glistened a drop. Gloom sank over me as I thought of Holmes and his drugs, but I tried not to think of it as I held the brandy to our visitor’s lips.

The man sputtered, then grabbed the cup from me and downed the contents. He remained silent for a moment, took a deep breath, and looked to my friend.

“Will you ’elp me, Mr. ’olmes?”

“This is a most singular case, Mr. Jacobs. Tell me, is Scotland Yard after you?”

Jacobs offered his cup, and I poured more brandy, which he drank as quickly as the first round.

“With all the noise, I knew somebody would call the coppers,” he said, calmer now. “I knew once they saw me dad, I’d be pinned for ’is murder. So I ran from the buildin’ as soon as I could. By the time they could ’ave showed up, I was gone.”

Holmes nodded. “I suggest that you continue to hide from the authorities. Stay elsewhere tonight, but we’ll visit you first thing in the morning at the tram building. We won’t keep you there long, I promise. I want you to show me where this horrible thing happened to your father. If it helps, I don’t believe you killed him—and yes, I do believe you saw something extraordinary. More than that, I cannot yet say.”

Holmes flagged me to usher our guest out, and I gave Willie Jacobs money for a carriage and handed him an umbrella. When I returned to the sitting room, Holmes was smoking his pipe again, and his eyes were at half-mast.

“Something most unusual is happening, Watson,” he said without looking up. “We leave for the East End tomorrow, first thing. I need your services. You’re coming, I presume.”

“Mary won’t like my going away for the whole day,” I protested, “not when our son is so young.”

“You will do them more good by ending this threat as soon as possible,” he replied. “Besides, Mary can manage without you. She’s quite capable.”

I shook my head. I knew Mary wouldn’t like the idea of me accompanying Holmes, but I had little willpower when it came to resisting Holmes’s requests for my help.

“Tell me,” I asked, “how do you think Theodore Jacobs actually died? He was alive one moment and dead the next.”

“That is the mystery. Indeed, it is, Watson.”

“Willie Jacobs makes it sound as if the killer vanished into thin air.”

My friend trained his sharp gray eyes upon me. “Indeed, but that defies the laws of science,” he replied, and his forehead furrowed. “It is illogical.” Then he offered no further comment.

“Yes, so it is,” I said after a few awkward moments. I looked around the room. “Be that as it may, I must be off, Holmes. Mary and Samuel await.”

Lost in thought, he didn’t answer. Then, as I reached for the door, he spoke.

“I will see you at eight, Watson. Mrs. Hudson will provide breakfast.” He flashed a smile at me, and his lips twitched in anticipation. “Now, go! I have much to think about.”

I stood for a moment by the door and glanced back into the room I’d occupied for so many years with my old friend. He lit a cigarette, and with his back to me, stared into the fire. A mere six steps away was his desk with the box in the open drawer.

He had used the needle recently.

Today.

I knew that I would help him in the morning. How I would explain it to Mary was something I did not yet know.

2

Leaves clung to the wet seat of the carriage. I brushed them aside, then sat beside Holmes. The driver snapped his reins, and the horses trotted off, hooves clattering against the cobblestones.