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

More electric fixtures burned in the hall, positioned to illuminate a line of paintings, large reproductions of familiar masterworks. I paused beside one, resting my leg, studying what appeared to be a watercolor of God creating the first man. In it, God hovered in the air, bending low to exhale the breath of life into his creation. I stepped closer, drawn by the expression on God’s face. He looked terrified. An inscription in the painting’s corner read:

“Elohim Creating Adam”

by M Adam, 1888

after W Blake 1795

The other paintings featured similar subjects. In each, the face of God was the same: slender, pale, apparently terrified.

I reached the stairs and gripped the banister, slowing my pace until I reached a long hall where the only light came from a doorway thirty feet on. I moved toward it and stepped inside.

A creature greeted me. It was of human size, except for its arms and head, which were disproportionately large. It resembled an orangutan. Yet it was hairless and dressed like a servant, and its fingers, when it raised them to indicate the waiting chair, were long and delicate.

The chair stood beneath an overhead light, the beam focused so precisely that the rest of the room remained in darkness. I looked again at the servant, recalled the assurance of M Adam’s letter, and sat in the chair. The overhead light expanded as I settled back. More lights came on illuminating the room which turned out to be a small library lined with books and paintings. Across from me, perhaps fifteen feet distant, a second chair sat beside a closed door.

I leaned forward, peering across the velvet rope that stretched in front of me. A wave of vertigo ensued. The room shifted before me. I felt myself falling.

“No, sir!” The servant grabbed me. “You must not move, sir.” It spoke with a disarmingly sweet voice, almost singing. “Master Adam told me to make sure you—”

A latch clicked from across the room.

I sat back. My vision cleared. Then, across the room, the far door swung wide.

A dark man entered, bowed slightly, and extended his hands. “Please,” he said. “Don’t get up.” He spoke English, seasoned with the vowels of a man more accustomed to French. “Stay seated and save your strength.”

I did as he said, watching as he took his seat across from me.

He was of average height, yet his form conveyed a sense of stature, immense size. He wore his hair long and straight, like the Indians of the American plains. His skin, too, was uncommonly tanned, though lighter than his lips, which were as black as his hair. But despite such features, there was something noble about him, almost beautiful, and somehow familiar.

“I’m relieved to see you looking so well,” he said, his diction recalling the tone of his letter: clear, precise, confident. “How is your pain?”

“It lingers,” I said, startled by the thinness of my voice. It seemed as atrophied as my limbs. “How long have I been here?”

“Since I pulled you from the flood.”

“That was yesterday?”

“No.”

“How long?”

His gaze narrowed, as if studying me from across a great distance. At last, he said: “Nearly four weeks.”

I flinched.

“Not four weeks from your perspective,” he added quickly. “Time is for the living, and you, Mr. Holmes, have spent nearly a month in the realm of the dead.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“I think you do, Mr. Holmes. My words are plain. You were dead. Your suicide was successful.”

“My suicide?”

“Excuse me if I speak candidly, but there’s no need for pretence. I found your suicide note.”

“But I didn’t—”

“Please. There’s no need to argue. Perhaps if I start the story at the beginning, it will be easier to follow.”

“Please.” My voice, which had grown stronger through our brief exchange, now faltered again. “I’m listening.”

He shifted in his seat, leaned back, and then proceeded in a tone more suited for oratory than conversation. “My home,” he began, spreading his hands to indicate the space beyond the library. “This secluded estate in which you find yourself stands near the brink of the Reichenbach Falls, less than a quarter mile from the site of your death. It’s a wild place, but the location suits my work. The river powers my generators, just as the hills and valleys power my mind. When I am wrestling with a problem, I wander the valleys, climb the cliffs, and contemplate the wonder of the first creator. I find answers in His works, but four weeks ago, while walking a path above the falls, I found a note resting on a boulder, held there by a cigarette case.” He paused, inviting comment.

I gave it: “You found my letter to Watson?”

“Yes. That was the salutation: ‘My Dear Watson’.”

“But that letter contained instructions, not an admission of suicide.”

He smiled, showing rows of straight, white teeth, so perfectly aligned they might have been carved from marble. “No? Perhaps not in so many words, but it did speak of a final act and the pain it would cause friends and family. And it gave the location of documents, instructions for the disposition of your estate.”

I could have explained those points, but there was a more pressing concern. “The letter,” I said. “Did you take it?”

“No. I left it on the boulder, with your cigarette case. I left your walking stick as well. It was clear you had left it to mark the location, to make it easier for your ‘Dear Watson’ to find your final testament. And there was no need for me to take the document. I have perfect recall. One look and I owned the form and content of the note: the names, details, tone, penmanship. That night, after pulling you from the flood, I drafted a letter in a hand and voice identical to yours. I sent it to your brother. It was a perfect forgery, though the minuteness of your hand required me to employ the use of a pantograph device. I tend to write large. Indeed, I do everything large. The sins of the father visited upon the child.” He smiled again, more broadly than before; giving the impression that he had just revealed something about his origins. I might have asked for clarification, but the matter of his forgery was more pressing.

“So you wrote to my brother,” I said, trying to get ahead of the story. “Instructing him to send supplies.”

“And money,” he added. “Some of which I used to purchase those few things your brother did not provide.”

“So Mycroft knows I’m alive?”

“He does. But I have — that is to say, you have — sworn him to secrecy. The rest of the world believes you are dead.” He sat back, studying me as if from a great distance. “It was suicide, to be sure. But a martyr’s suicide. You trailed a criminal to the brink of the falls, threw him over the edge, then leaped after him.”

“I did not leap. I lost balance.”

“Yes, it often comes to that, a loss of balance. My father—” He turned away abruptly, cocking his head as if listening to a voice behind his chair. But there was no one there, only a wall of books and an empty doorway. He raised a hand, cupped it to his ear, listened a moment longer, and then turned again to face me. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I must go.” He stood, and once again I was struck by the impression of size. He was a man of average height with the poise of a dark god.

“Shall I wait here?” I asked.

“No.” He started toward the door, but then he paused, gripping the back of his chair as if clinging to a cliff. He looked back at me. “This conversation is over. Indeed, I fear I’ve already explained too much.”

“But I still have questions.”

“Yes. I’m sure you do. I would expect no less. But this meeting is over. A carriage will take you into town. From there, you can arrange passage—”