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

Holmes sat down opposite her, steepling his fingers. “If you would furnish me with the facts, Miss Cartwright, and please do not leave anything out. Even the smallest detail might be of significance.”

Sadly, it soon became clear, as she related what she knew, that the culprit could be none other than her relation. The night before last, Simon had visited Judith to discuss their forthcoming wedding. Upon hearing a disturbance in the living room, where Simon had been escorted only minutes beforehand, the girl’s only living parent — her father — discovered the young man standing over the body of Judith. The young lady had suffered a tremendous head wound. In Simon’s hand was a poker, dripping with blood. Mr. Hatten flew into a fury and had to be held back by his staff from attacking Simon himself, while Miss Cartwright’s cousin was held down until the authorities arrived.

Holmes frowned, obviously reaching the same conclusion as I.

“He swears it was not him … says that he cannot remember what happened, Mr. Holmes. And I believe him. Simon is the gentlest man in the world and he did so love Judith. I know he did. He would never have raised a finger to hurt her.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “It is so often the case, however, that we do not truly know our friends and loved ones Miss Cartwright.”

“We grew up together and were as close as brother and sister. I do know him, Mr. Holmes. Please, I implore you,” she said, clasping her hands together. “Visit him yourself.”

Holmes glanced sideways, attempting not to let this sway his judgement, but in spite of his somewhat cool exterior, my friend has never been able to turn away anyone in such distress. Yet I have seen him reject far more intriguing investigations, so something about this particular case must have piqued his interest. I wish to God now, looking back, that he’d had the courage to simply inform Miss Cartwright he could not help. If that sounds harsh, believe me, it will not by the time I have finished this tale.

So it was that we found ourselves in a coach on our way to see her cousin at Scotland Yard’s ‘charming’ prison. The journey at least afforded me some time to glean Holmes’ thoughts about the case.

“Surely it would be wrong to get the young woman’s hopes up,” I told him. “The man’s destined for the noose. There might not have been witnesses to the actual deed, but being caught with the murder weapon in one’s possession implies just as much guilt.”

Holmes steadfastly refused to be drawn on the matter until we’d seen the prisoner for ourselves. When we arrived and asked to see the man, Inspector Lestrade similarly conveyed the opinion that my friend was wasting his time.

“I can not understand why Miss Cartwright has brought you into such an affair,” said the sly-looking policeman. “There was nothing untoward in the investigation, I can assure you, Mr. Holmes.” His tone was defensive, as if he thought we were criticising his procedure. Nevertheless, he granted us full access to the man, in part because of all the help Holmes has been to the police in his career — often without due credit — but I think also because he was confident enough that nothing we discovered would make him look inferior to his men. “The father is baying for the man’s blood,” Lestrade called after us, as if he thought that might change our minds.

The young prisoner had a haunted look about him. He was staring at the stone wall opposite, and from time to time just shook his head as if he could not comprehend how he had arrived in this dark, dank place.

“Your cousin Georgia has asked that we speak with you,” Holmes said, after making our introductions, but could elicit no response.

“She tells us that you deny any wrongdoing in the murder of Miss Judith Hatten,” said I, at which I did notice a twitch of his eye. Then, suddenly, he was holding his head in his hands, tearing at his hair.

“I did not murder her,” he whispered, almost inaudibly, then screamed: “I did not murder her!” Simon looked across at us, eyes as tearful as his cousin’s were but an hour earlier. “P-Please… Please, you have to believe me…”

Holmes stepped closer to the bars. “Then tell us who did.”

Simon shook his head again, but it wasn’t a refusal; it was simply that he had no idea what to say. What could he say, when all the evidence pointed towards him? He would say nothing more, even when pressed, and we left not long afterwards — Holmes informing the guard on duty that he should be watched.

“I believe he may try to take his own life,” Holmes told him.

The guard snorted. “It’d save us the trouble.”

My friend flashed the guard a look of distaste. “Watson, let us take our leave of this place…”

As we walked out of the prison, and as I was attempting to match Holmes’ stride, I commented, “You cannot blame the guard. Miss Cartwright’s cousin offers no defence.”

“Watson,” Holmes said, suddenly rounding on me, “did you not see it in the man’s eyes? That man is an innocent.”

“But how can he be?” I argued. “You’ve heard all the—”

He held up a finger. “And yet he is still innocent. I cannot explain it, but I do believe it. He has no recollection of committing these acts, but I am certain he saw them being committed.”

I rubbed my chin. “He’s definitely a troubled man, but guilt can block out memories. Or are you perhaps suggesting a split personality?”

Holmes pursed his lips. “You have the medical knowledge, Watson…”

“Well, I’d need to study him more to—” I was interrupted this second time by the blowing of whistles and policemen running past us. There was something afoot, a crime in progress, and even though we were already committed to this first investigation Holmes is never one to let an opportunity for observation — or to lend assistance — pass him by.

We followed the police to a house but a few streets away. Holmes completely ignored Lestrade’s warnings to stay back until they could ascertain what had happened and, dashing after my friend, I too witnessed the tail end of what occurred.

Later, we would learn that the house belonged to a Mr. and Mrs. William Thorndyke. An ordinary couple in every single way — Mr. Thorndyke being a retired schoolteacher.

Screams had been heard bursting from their home; a woman’s screams. As we entered the dining room, Lestrade still trying to keep us back, we saw that these screams had indeed come from Mrs. Thorndyke, but not because she was being assaulted in any way. No, these were the screams of a woman holding a dinner-knife in her hand, standing, staring at the body of her husband, sprawled across the dining table. From what I could see, confirmed by later examination, I can tell you that he had been stabbed repeatedly by the instrument clutched in his wife’s hand. It had been a frenzied attack; gore covered the table and dripped from the tablecloth. It would not be the final such scene we would witness in the course of this investigation.

As the police moved in closer, Mrs. Thorndyke stopped screaming and looked over in our direction. She wore that same lost expression that had so recently adorned the face of Miss Cartwright’s cousin.

One of sheer and utter disbelief.

“ Lestrade! ” cried Holmes, but his warning came too late. Mrs. Thorndyke looked at the body of her husband, looked down at the bloodied knife in her hand, then before anyone could move to stop her she swiftly drew the blade across her own throat. A thick jet of blood sprayed across the room.

The police let me through then, but there was nothing that could be done for the poor woman. She had made a very thorough job of cutting through both the jugular vein and carotid arteries. My attempts to stem the tide of blood were in vain. As Holmes joined me we both heard her final gurgling gasp. “I … I didn’t…”