J. Campbell - Gaslight Arcanum - Uncanny Tales of Sherlock Holmes

“I’m glad you could attend us, Mr. Holmes,” he said, shaking our hands with relief. “This is the most confounded business, and I am deuced if I know what the answer might be. I can only think that the villagers are right, and the Devil himself has cursed this place.”

“There is no time to be lost. Perhaps we should start by seeing your stable boy,” Holmes suggested. “Where is he now?”

“He is attended by a nurse upstairs,” said Miss Woodham, “but I fear you will discover little from him. The lad has not uttered a single word since witnessing the death of his master.”

Jacob, the stable boy, lay pinned by hard white linens in a small room at the back of the house. His pale face stared straight up, his eyes unmoving, his lips dry. Holmes sat beside him while I shone a light in the lad’s eyes to measure the contraction of his pupils. “He is in shock,” I told the nurse. “He must be regularly fed beef tea and kept warm. In time he will make a full recovery.”

Holmes was talking to the lad, speaking so quickly and softly that none of us could hear what he was saying. After a few minutes, the boy’s mouth suddenly opened and he began to whisper the same thing over and over, something that sounded like ‘Phantoms of the dead.’

“I fear we will get no more from him today,” said Holmes, rising sharply. He seemed hardly concerned for the boy’s health, and only wanted more information. “Come, Watson, we need to see the body of the groom. Perhaps Dr. Watson might be allowed to examine him?”

“He is lying upstairs in the Barley Mow, awaiting the verdict of the coroner,” Miss Woodham explained. “Mr. Charlton can take you to him in the brougham.”

A short, barrel-chested man with luxuriant grey mutton chop whiskers and the sun-darkened face of an outdoorsman appeared beside the Major General.

“Mr. Charlton can be trusted with anything you might have to say,” said Sir Henry. “Like myself, he was a cavalry officer at the Crimean Peninsula. I have known him for well over thirty years. Many in our village fought for their country, but few were actively engaged with the enemy like Charles and myself.”

We made our way through scowling drinkers and climbed the worn stairs in the local alehouse, where we found the body of Elias Peason, the head groom, covered with a winding sheet that had grown dark with his blood. I removed the cloth and studied the wound at his throat. “This cut was not made with a razor,” I exclaimed, “but with a sword. It is too wide and deep, and was performed in a single sweep.”

“Bravo, Watson,” Holmes exclaimed. “I knew I could rely upon your medical knowledge to help us out. But regard the look of sheer horror on his face. What did he see in the moment of his death?” He turned his attention to Mr. Charlton. “Were the pair of them together throughout the course of the storm?”

“I am given to understand so. They were seen from the road by a passing ostler who insists that the boy ran off at the height of the storm, leaving his master alone.”

“He saw the groom die?”

“He says the man uttered an unearthly scream and fell to the ground, and that he was entirely alone.”

“You know this witness? He is reliable?”

“He is known to partake of strong drink upon occasion.”

“Do you have any reason to suspect the lad?”

“Not at all. He had the greatest respect for his master. You will see for yourself, sir. There is fear in his face, but no cruelty in his heart. During my time in the army I have seen men kill and be killed in turn, and I would swear the boy is innocent.”

“Then whom do you suspect?”

“I think you had better see the rest of it, sir,” said Mr. Charlton, bringing us to the lawn where the body was found.

The half-acre of green behind the grange was still flooded from the storm. Around us the tops of tall beeches shook and whispered as if telling secrets. As we approached the spot where the groom had been killed, Holmes strode forward with a look of excitement on his face. Almost at once I saw what he saw, but could not make sense of it. “What is that?” I asked.

There appeared to be hundreds of indentations surrounding the space where the body had fallen. The earth was as churned and broken as if a flight of stallions had been driven across it.

“Did the groom release your horses before he was attacked?” asked Holmes.

“No sir, these prints were not here before,” said Mr. Charlton. “The horses were affrighted in the storm, but were still stabled behind locked doors.”

“The prints appear to start at the edge of the lawn and lift away on the far side,” called Holmes. “There are no other marks beyond them. It’s almost as if they came down from the sky to attack the groom.”

“Whatever could have left so many hoof prints?” I asked, but no answer came.

“We have found them here before, sir, regularly for the last three months, sometimes numbering in their hundreds, cutting across the fields in a single flight.”

“There are no herds of wild horses in the area?”

“Not to my knowledge, sir, not since the grazing lands were fenced.”

“When was the last time the prints appeared?” asked Holmes.

“Two weeks ago to the day, sir.”

“And before that?”

“The Saturday previous, just after dark.”

“That is suggestive,” Holmes replied, but I could not see how.

Later that evening we joined Sir Henry and his daughter in the candlelit retiring room after dinner. Usually by this stage Holmes had a rough idea of what he was up against, but this time he remained uncharacteristically silent on the cause.

“Did your groom have any enemies?” he asked, stroking his thin nose thoughtfully. It was the kind of elementary question he usually had no need of raising.

“None at all,” said Sir Henry, pouring brandies. “He was also a Crimean veteran. Military men form allegiances that last a lifetime.”

“Men without enemies are rarely found with their throats cut,” muttered Holmes, sinking into his armchair. “I think I should hear more about this local legend of yours.”

“Then you should speak to Reverend Horniman,” said Sir Henry. “I understand he is something of an expert on the subject.”

As we retired for bed, Miss Woodham stopped Holmes on the landing, anxious to speak to him beyond the hearing of Sir Henry.

“Mr. Holmes, I do believe the Devil is at work here,” she whispered. “My father is in fear of his life, and even Mr. Charlton — usually the most stoic of gentlemen — seems to have taken fright. Something terrible is haunting this house, and you are our last hope.”

“I will do what I can, Miss Woodham, I promise you that.” Holmes laid a reassuring hand on her arm, but would say no more.

The next morning dawned bare and bitter, but dry at least. We walked to the parish church, planning to have a word with the reverend after his first service.

“We are honoured to have encouraged the attention of London’s famous consulting detective,” said Rev. Horniman, welcoming us into the now emptied church, “but this is a terrible business.”

“I was hoping you could enlighten us about your village’s strange superstition,” said Holmes.

“I can show you something that has lately come to light concerning the legend, if that would help,” the Reverend offered. He returned from the sacristy bearing a parcel of oilskin cloth and carefully unwrapped it. “This was found buried in the parish grounds. Our gravedigger was turning sod in preparation for a new grave when his spade struck something hard.”

Inside the cloth was a glistening medal with an ornate clasp, being in the form of an oak leaf with an acorn at each extremity.