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

Holmes turned to Captain Smeaton. “You knew Barstow well. Is that his voice?”

“God help us. Indeed it is.”

Mrs. Barstow clawed at Smeaton’s arm. “Send the machine. Bring him to me!”

“No!” Captain Smeaton’s voice rang out with fear, rather than anger.

“I agree with Mrs. Barstow.” Holmes pulled on his black leather gloves. “Prepare the diving bell. I will visit the Pollux myself.”

“Impossible.”

“I insist. For I must see for myself who — or what — is the tenant of your lost machine.”

Not many men thwart my friend, Sherlock Holmes. Ten minutes later, the crew had the Castor ready for descent. Holmes quickly returned to the control room. The twin sister still lay unconscious; the horror had overwhelmed her senses. The widow stood perfectly straight: her dark eyes regarded Holmes from a bone-white face.

“Mrs. Barstow,” he intoned. “You do know that what you crave is an impossibility? Your husband cannot still be a living, breathing man after five years in that iron canister.”

“I have faith.”

“I see.”

“Mr. Holmes, do you wish to hear that private name I gave my husband?”

Holmes spoke kindly, “That will no longer be necessary.”

I couldn’t remain silent. “Good God, man, surely you will not descend in that machine?”

“I have no choice, Watson.”

“Please, Holmes, I beg—”

“Wait for me here, won’t you, old friend?” He gave a wry smile. “Fates willing, this won’t be a lengthy journey.” He picked up the telephone’s handset. “But first, one more question. Barstow?”

A sound of respiration gusted from the speaker.

“Barstow. Tell me what you see from your lair?”

“All is green. All is green. And yet…”

“And yet what?”

“The funnel of this wreck towers above the diving bell. Always I see the funnel standing there. A black monolith. A grave-marker. Do not come here…”

“It is my duty, sir. You are a mystery. I must investigate.”

“No.”

“My nature compels me.”

“No! If you should dare to approach my vessel I will destroy you!”

“Sir, I shall be with you presently.”

Holmes briskly left the room. The voice still screamed from the speaker: “You will die! You will die!”

We crossed the aft deck to the Castor.

With utter conviction I announced, “Holmes. I’m coming with you.”

He gave a grim smile. “Watson. I was rather hoping you would.”

Moments later, we clambered through a hatch into the huge iron cylinder. In shape and in size, it resembled, as I’ve previously described, the boiler of a locomotive. Within: a bench in padded red plush ran along one wall. In the wall opposite the seat, a pair of portholes cast from enormously thick glass. They were set side by side, and prompted one to envisage the bulging eyes of some primordial creature. Above us, the blue sky remained in view through the open hatch. Captain Smeaton appeared.

“Gentlemen. You will receive fresh air through the tube. If you wish to speak to me, use the telephone mounted on the wall there beside you. God speed!”

“One moment, Captain,” said Holmes. “When Watson and I are despatched to the seabed, ensure that Mrs. Barstow and her sister remain in the control room with you. Is that understood?”

“Aye-aye, Mr. Holmes.”

“Upon your word?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. Because their proximity to you might very well be a matter of life and death.”

Then the hatch was sealed tight. A series of clanks, a jerking sensation, the crane lifted the Castor off the deck. A swaying movement, and I spied through the thick portholes that we were swung over the guardrail and dangled over the ocean; such a searing blue at that moment.

“ Castor and Pollux ,” I whispered, every fibre tensing. “The heavenly twins.”

“Not only that. In most classical legends Pollux is immortal. Whereas—” he patted the curving iron wall in front of him. “— Castor is a mere mortal. And capable of death.”

The shudders transmitted along the hawser to the diving bell were disconcertingly fierce. The sounds of the crane motors were very loud. In truth, louder than I deemed possible. Until, that is, the diving bell reached the sea. With a flurry of bubbles it sank beneath the surface. White froth gave way to clear turquoise.

Swiftly, the vessel descended. Silent now. An iron calf slipping free of its hulking mother on the surface.

“Don’t neglect to breathe, Watson.”

I realized I was holding my breath. “Thank you, Holmes.”

“Fresh air is pumped through the inlet hose above our heads.”

“Hardly fresh.” I managed a grim smile. “It reeks of coal smoke and tickles the back of the throat so.”

“At least it is wholesome … if decidedly pungent.”

The light began to fade as we sank deeper. I took stock of my surroundings. The interior of the cylinder offered little more room than the interior of a hansom cab. Indeed, we sat side by side. Between us hung the cable of the telephone. The handset had been clipped to the wall within easy reach.

And down we went. Darker … darker … darker…. The vessel swayed slightly. My stomach lightened a little, as when descending by elevator. I clenched my fists upon my lap until the knuckles turned white.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Holmes said. “The barometric pressure of the interior remains the same as that of sea-level.”

“Then we will be spared the bends and nitrogen narcosis. The former is agonizing. The latter intoxicates and induces hallucination.”

“Ah! You know about the medical perils of deep-sea diving.”

“When a former army doctor sits beside a naval doctor at his club you can imagine the topics of conversation over the glasses of port.” I clicked my tongue “And now I tell you this so as to distract myself from the knowledge that we are descending over five hundred feet to the ocean floor. In a blessed tin can!”

Holmes leaned forward, eager to witness what lay beyond the glass. The water had dulled from bright turquoise to blue. To deep blue. A pink jelly-fish floated by. A globular sac from which delicate filaments descended. Altogether a beautiful creature. Totally unlike the viscous remains of jelly-fish one finds washed ashore.

Holmes read a dial set between the portholes. “Sixty fathoms. Two thirds of the way there, Watson.”

“Dear Lord.”

“Soon we should see the shipwreck. And shortly, thereafter, this vessel’s twin.”

“Twin?” I echoed. “Which reminds me. I thought the twin sisters we encountered today were decidedly odd.”

“Ah-ha. So we are two minds with a single thought.”

“And no doubt you deduced far more than I could from their dress, speech and retinue of subtle clues.”

“Supposition at the moment, Watson, rather than deduction. Before I make any pronouncement on the sisters, or the singular voice emerging from the telephone, I need to see just who is in residence in the Pollux . Which, if I’m not mistaken, is coming into view below.”

He’d no sooner uttered the words when a shadow raced from the darkness beyond the porthole glass. Silently, it rushed by.

“What the devil was that?” I asked in surprise.

“Possibly a dolphin or a shark…” He pressed his fingertips together as he considered. “Although I doubt it very much.”

The mystifying remark didn’t ease my trepidation. And that trepidation turned into one of overt alarm when a clang sounded against the side of the diving bell. The entire structure lurched, forcing us to hold tight to a brass rail in front of us.