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

“But why would anyone bury such a thing?” I asked, looking up at Holmes. My companion seemed thunderstruck, and with barely another word set off in the direction of the village. It was all I could do to keep up with him.

“Really, Holmes,” I exclaimed, “I think you might have been a little more civil to the Reverend, he was only trying to help.”

“Civility has no importance when lives are at stake,” came the reply. “Come, my friend, we must head back to the Barley Mow.”

“Are we to view the corpse once more?” I ventured.

“No,” said Holmes, “we must speak with the farmers who drink there.”

We found a surly group of red-faced men in dirty smocks seated around the bar. Holmes had realized that the best way to win them over was to stand a round of drinks, and soon had them talking. I had assumed he would want to prise gossip from them about the stable boy or the head groom, or perhaps about Sir Henry and his treatment of his tenants, but instead Holmes wanted to know about the patterns of the weather.

“This land is dipped between three hills,” said one of the farmers. “The rain clouds come a-sweeping over the trees and the air gets trapped, see, so we get more’an our fair share of storms — they start by swirling around in the vale and can’t break back out.”

Holmes turned to nudge me. “It is as I suspected,” he said. “And can you stout fellows recall the most recent sequence of storms?”

We came away with a full record of recent bad weather attested to by the farmers. I could not see the relevance of this information, and as Holmes hurried us away in the direction of the grange I asked him what he hoped to find.

“I have a part of the puzzle but no more than that,” he admitted. “To reach the true solution I begin to wonder if I must think the unthinkable. Let us catch up with Sir Henry, for I fear there is another storm coming in that could place him in great danger.”

“A storm?” I cried. “I realize we are in the countryside where there is a greater risk in such meteorological events, but surely the Major General has nothing to fear from bad weather.”

“It is not the storm Sir Henry has to fear,” replied Holmes, “but what hides inside it. Tell me, Watson, do you believe Our Majesty when she says that God has chosen the English people to lead the world?”

“Well, I believe she was elected by God to lead our nation, and as she is the head of the most powerful empire on Earth I imagine that gives us great strength.”

“Yes, but is it truly divine right? What if our belief is wrong?”

“It is something I cannot think about, save for the fact that, as a doctor, I believe that all peoples of the earth are created equal, and are just in different stages of development.”

“Hm. Wise words, my friend, but there are some who would find your opinions heresy. Come, we must find Sir Henry before another crime is enacted.”

“Surely you cannot think he is the culprit!” I interrupted.

“No, Watson, but I think the ghosts of his past are unleashing an unstoppable evil upon this estate.”

We reached the hall just as a fresh storm broke overhead. Divesting ourselves of our wet topcoats, we went to find the Major General, but were halted by Miss Woodham.

“There you are,” she said. “My father was quite unseated by the rising storm and has gone out to await your arrival — did you not pass him? He was going to the top of the drive.”

Holmes uttered an epithet not suited for female ears and turned on his heel. I followed, running to keep pace. We crossed the torn-up lawn and searched right and left. Sir Henry was standing between the lines of darkening beeches, but it was hard for me to keep sight of him. The rising gale was tearing leaves and even branches across our path.

“Can you hear that?” called Holmes. “It sounds like voices.”

Indeed, I fancied I heard in the blast of wind that caught my ear the sound of crying voices, in great pain, terror and yes — anger. The sky was bruised in roiling shades of black and brown. “We must get Sir Henry to safety!” I shouted. “The stables are at our back.”

With a few long strides, Holmes had seized the old military man and pulled him away, but even as he did so I saw the hoof prints begin to appear. They were puckering the soil directly ahead of Sir Henry, thundering toward him. “This is madness!” I cried. “It’s as if the very gates of Hell are opening!”

The ground spat and tore all around us, clods of earth flying in every direction as the unseen hooves smashed and crushed the turf underfoot. There was a terrible slashing in the air, and Sir Henry flinched as if struck.

Reaching the stables, we tore open the doors and thrust Sir Henry inside. He offered no resistance, and collapsed on the hay bales as we battened down the entrance once more. It was then I saw that he had been cut — not deeply, as Holmes had been able to pull him back from harm, but enough to cause a fast flow of surface blood from his arm. I tore a horse blanket into strips and quickly staunched the bleeding.

As the wind and rain hammered the walls and clattered across the tin roof, thunder smashed so loudly that we could not hear each other speak. And so we remained for half an hour, until the worst of the tempest had passed and escaped to the hills once more.

“What devilry is this?” gasped Sir Henry. “Please, Mr. Holmes, go and make sure that my daughter is safe.”

Holmes went ahead, and I brought the Major General back to the house, but he was much depleted in energy. Upon arrival, I took the liberty of pouring him a brandy, and had one myself. Then I set about properly cleaning and dressing his wound.

Feeling that we were safer in assembly, the five of us, Holmes, myself, Miss Woodham, Sir Henry and Charles Charlton gathered in the great room and waited for the clouds to clear, but by now night had fallen. Upstairs, the nurse sat with the mute stable-boy, whose dark eyes continued to stare at the ceiling as if seeing beyond into the blackest reaches of space.

A servant passed through with tapers and lit the room, dispelling some of our fears. We gathered around the fireplace, feeling stronger but no less disturbed.

“Some thirty years ago we all fought the Russians,” said Sir Henry. “I believe the souls of our dead enemies have returned, to continue their war against us from beyond the grave.”

“I think not,” Holmes replied. “I can explain in part what is happening, but there is one more piece of the puzzle still to place.”

“Please, Mr. Holmes,” entreated Miss Woodham, “shed any light you can on these terrible visitations.” As she spoke, we heard the wind begin to rise once more, and a fresh squall of rain hit the leadlight windows.

“The storm has circled and is coming back once more,” said Mr. Charlton as the candles closest to the window guttered and blew out.

Holmes ignored the noise of the tempest and continued. “It is said that the forces of nature have the power to open rifts between our world and the next. Each time the Devil’s hoof prints have appeared, it has been during a time of natural disruption. This, after all, is the season of storms. As the possessor of one of the finest rational minds in the country, I cannot condone such thinking, you understand, but I appreciate how such beliefs arise. And then there was the matter of the little curate, Reverend Horniman, who set me thinking further.” Holmes dug into his jacket pocket and held up the gold medal. “Three months ago, at the very time these attacks first started, the Reverend’s gravedigger unearthed this medallion in his churchyard. In itself it is a rare enough piece, being awarded to those who fought in the Crimean theatre of war. But this particular one, with the ornate oak leaves on the cross-bar, is given only to those who had direct engagement with the enemy.”