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

“I have one in my possession,” said Sir Henry. “My head groom was also in my regiment, and possessed another.”

“Indeed, sir. I took the imposition of checking. You may be aware that there are several other men from your regiment living in this village.”

“After the war, many of the men who had fought together chose to resettle in their old villages, and many recruits came from Devon.”

“But I believe there is another medal like this, with the oak leaf cross bar, held by someone in this very house.” Holmes looked at Mr. Charlton.

“The one you found in the churchyard is mine,” said Mr. Charlton in shame.

“But why, man?” cried Sir Henry. “Why would you bury such an honour?”

“Because I could not bear to look at it,” said Mr. Charlton. “For what it represents, and the way it makes me feel. I hoped never to see it again. I determined to bury it soon after receiving it.” He turned to Holmes. “The other old soldiers in the village don’t know, sir. They are not a part of this.”

“A part of what?” coaxed Holmes.

“It was a secret held by only the three of us; and I am the most to blame for I carried out the order.”

“I think you had better tell us the truth now, Mr. Charlton,” said Holmes, with urgency in his voice as the storm continued to rise.

“It sounds as if the wind is trying to tear off the roof,” said Miss Woodham, glancing to the ceiling with apprehension.

“You must understand the difficulties we faced, sir,” continued Mr. Charlton, as more candles were snuffed out, and only the fluttering flames in the fireplace lit his face. “The British army was poorly prepared to fight the Russians, and even more ill-equipped for the attack on the Crimean Peninsular. From the shore where we arrived to the battlefield was a lengthy and difficult journey by mule. Lord Cardigan and Lord Lucan were fools too busy baiting one another to take proper care of their troops. Food supplies were dropped at the dock and left to rot because we had no way of getting them to our men.

“It was I who made the decision to requisition the horses for the cavalry officers. I thought I could take them for our comrades, and the food supplies would be delivered by mule through the mountains. I did not know that most of the mules had died, and that without them there was no way of the food getting through.”

“I knew our comrades needlessly died of starvation when they should have lived to fight the enemy,” said Sir Henry, shocked. “But I did not know of the part you played, Charles.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Believe me; had I known the results of my actions, I would not have acted thus.”

“Then these are not the spirits of avenging Russians, but of our own men!”

“Are there others in the village who are privy to this knowledge?” asked Holmes. “It is vital that I am in full possession of the facts.”

“No sir,” said Mr. Charlton, “for I made sure that the requisition copies were destroyed. The secret resides solely with me, and now the deed is being punished. The dead do, indeed, return. And the lives of all those who survived in place of their fallen comrades are at risk.”

“Pish,” said Holmes. “I do not believe in ghosts. You think the spirits of the fallen have been enticed by the Devil to take revenge against you? That they ride from Hades to take your lives?”

“Sir, I know this to be the case, and you have seen the hoof prints yourself, not made by horses but by the cloven-footed devils upon whom the soldiers of the dead must ride, for you see — they had no horses of their own. ”

“It is madness to consider such superstitious nonsense,” said Holmes, but even as he spoke the wind howled down the chimney, blasting a great inferno of cinders out into the room, extinguishing the few remaining candles. Miss Woodham and myself stamped out the burning embers, but now the far window had blown in, as if the Devil himself was leaning against the walls. The full fury of the storm was attempting to enter the house.

“I must go out there and offer myself,” said Mr. Charlton wildly. “It was I who exposed my guilt before God by burying the medal, and now I must save Sir Henry while there is still time.”

“Listen to me, Mr. Charlton,” said Holmes, “I honestly believe you blame yourself for angering the dead, but it is a storm that caused the churning of the ground, and lightning that slashed the throat of your groom, nothing more.”

“That is not true, Holmes, and you know it!” I cried. “I saw the wound for myself.”

“You are a man of science, Watson, you cannot believe this too!”

Mr. Charlton ran to the door and flung it wide. We started after him, to pull him back into the safety of the room, but we were too late. He ran out onto the lawn and shouted at the sky, where a funnel of thick black cloud was spinning down towards the earth.

We felt the ground shake beneath us as great brown clods of mud were torn in a channel that roared toward Mr. Charlton like a platoon stampeding through a valley. The ‘Phantoms of the Dead’, as the stable boy had called them, had returned. We watched in horror as Mr. Charlton’s body was slowly lifted in the air, punched and twisted this way and that, as if unseen creatures were pushing at him. Blood flew about his face and neck, then his chest and arms, and finally his limbs were torn and stretched until they broke. We could hear each crack and cry from below, where we stood. When he was eventually released and fell, we saw the slashes across his stout form that had parted clothing and flesh all the way to the bone, cutting him to ribbons. Mr. Charlton was dead even before he had hit the ground.

A spectacular flash of lightning illuminated the scene. For a brief second I saw — or fancied I saw — the fiery horned devils who bore the dead on their backs, armed with unsheathed cavalry swords. And then they were gone, thundering back into the rolling clouds, born away by the tempestuous night.

“No more!” Holmes slammed the doors shut at his back, leaving the fallen man outside.

“No, Mr. Holmes, now there is only me, and I am an old man whose time has come,” said Sir Henry, as his daughter ran to his side.

“Father, the Devil has had his due,” exclaimed Miss Woodham. “Mr. Charlton has made right his terrible mistake.”

“Perhaps that is so,” said Sir Henry, “for there is no greater crime than when an officer has made his own men suffer.”

“You are wrong, sir,” said Holmes with some passion. “The greater crime is to engage the enemy in the sure belief that God is on your side.” He turned to me. “Come, Watson, I feel we should return to London tonight. There is nothing more to be done here.”

I had never seen my friend in a mood like this. He was angry. Not detached and analytical, but furious that he was being forced to face the impossible and consider it real. I felt sure that back in London he would bury his doubts once more in work and the syringe.

My last view of Sir Henry was as a sickly old man being comforted by his daughter, slumped in his armchair before the dying fire, disturbed by doubts that he might have spent his life believing in things that were not true.

Holmes and I returned to London, but during the long train journey home we did not speak of the case again, for fear that it might have awoken a chasm between us that no amount of reason could ever fill.

* * * * *

CHRISTOPHER FOWLER is the multi-award winning author of over thirty novels including the recently released Bryant and May Off the Rails , the eighth novel to feature Bryant and May. In addition to writing novels and short stories Christopher has written comedy and drama for BBC Radio One (including the Sherlock Holmes story The Lady Upstairs ), has written articles and columns for a variety of publications and recently completed Celebrity for the stage.