Sherlock Holmes 01: The Breath of God Read online

  “Really?” I laughed, while Holmes tore at the brown paper of his tobacco order. “You learned under Bloodthirsty Barrow too, did you?”

  Silence smiled and nodded. “And like you, I dare say, I winced at the pleasure he seemed to take in each and every cut.”

  I turned to Holmes. “It wouldn’t surprise me in the least were Sir Lionel Barrow to have crossed your path Holmes, there was certainly a homicidal air to him.”

  My friend shrugged and put a cigarette to his lips. “The name means nothing.” He exhaled a large mouthful of smoke that partially obscured his bored face. “Perhaps I should give the two of you some privacy in which to... chat?” The half-tone of disgust he gave that last word was not lost on me. There was nothing smaller to Holmes than small talk.

  “Forgive me,” Silence said, “but as much as it’s a pleasure to find you in Dr Watson’s company, it is your attention that I was hoping for.”

  “You have it,” Holmes replied, reclining once more upon the chaise. “But only because of the singular evidence of the Labrador hair on your trouser shins.”

  Silence glanced down and began to pick off the hair. “Most observant of you,” he said. “Though I fail to see its relevance.”

  “You are clearly as fastidious as a cat in your appearance,” Holmes answered. “The fact that you’ve travelled here without once taking note of the state of your trousers suggests to me that your mind is greatly occupied. It is a condition of which I am extremely envious so I lie here in the hope it might be contagious.”

  “I can assure you I have an incredible story to relate. You may be aware that I am not in the habit of consulting others, in point of fact I’m rather more comfortable as the one consulted.”

  “I am aware – by reputation at least – of your practice, though it would be dishonest of me to suggest I approve of it.”

  Silence smiled. “I seek nobody’s approval, Mr Holmes, and time will tell if you maintain your views.”

  Holmes waved the thought away, as if it were so impossible that his opinion could shift that it was scarcely worth mentioning. In truth though I had noted a change in his behaviour. For all of his outward show of disinterest – even disdain – he was attentive to every detail of the doctor’s tale, indeed, by its conclusion he was rapt with attention.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SILENCE’S ACCOUNT

  “It can scarcely surprise you,” said our guest, “that scepticism is a common response to my work. Indeed, when discussing my practice, the only thing more potent and freely offered than derision is the gratitude of those few I am fortunate to be able to help. That the balance is thus maintained explains why I find it easy to rise above my detractors. Besides, far from being – as most of my critics believe – intangible, irrational theories and practices, the tenets of my work are deeply researched and honed. I dedicated five years of my life to expanding what I had been taught about the body to include what I could also learn of the spirit. I studied all over the world, from the ashrams alongside the Sabarmati River to the temples that lie in the most inhospitable regions of Tibet.”

  “My friend also has some knowledge of Tibet,” I interjected, hoping that this might be the foundation for some mutual respect between client and detective.

  “Knowledge is not valued by its geographical location,” Holmes said, “rather by intellectual worth.” He dismissed my interruption with a wave of his hand. “Please, Dr Silence, if we could progress beyond justification into the realm of information. Tell me what it is that you wish me to investigate.”

  “Very well, though I am less a potential client than a messenger, as you shall soon see.

  “My medical practice has dwindled over the last year or two. I find that my esoteric services are in more demand and I must dedicate an increasing amount of my time to them. However, yesterday I was visited by an old medical patient, a sailor I had treated after an accident amongst the rigging had threatened to rob him of his left leg.”

  Silence then launched into his tale:

  “Simcox,” I greeted him, noting a slight limp to his stride but no more than might be expected given the cold this winter. “I trust your old infirmity has not returned?”

  “Indeed not, Doctor,” he replied, “these old bones are stronger than ever, it is for the sake of another that I call. You remember my Elsa?”

  Elsa was his daughter, a bonny-faced thing that had hung at my elbow throughout my earlier visits to the Simcox household, equally full of concern and fascination at my work. “Indeed,” I assured him, “what ails the poor girl?”

  “I only wish I knew, sir,” he replied and with that he dropped into a chair and began to sob. It was clear that this stolid man had spent a considerable time strung as tight as one of his own sails. Now he was here, and hopeful of my relieving him of his strain, that strength was gone. I poured him a brandy from the decanter on the sideboard – we doctors know that sometimes the most beneficial medicines are the simplest – and forced him to drink it before he attempted any further explanation.

  “Forgive me, Doctor,” he said finally, “the last few days have been more than I could stand. For a moment there, the weight of them quite overtook me.”

  “No need for apologies,” I assured him. “I only hope I might help. Pray tell me all.”

  “It began a week or so ago,” he explained, “in the early hours of the morning when my wife and I were asleep. I had been ashore for a couple of days, and had been enjoying the feel of solid ground beneath me. I am often away from home, of course, such is the lot of my profession, but I try and make the most of the time I do have and we had spent the day at the park, a few games, a packed hamper.” He gave a full, warm smile at the memory. “We had leisured like gentry. But that night, with the sound of my Elsa’s happy laughter still fresh in my ears, I awoke to find her screaming from her cot, as if the very devil himself had his nails in her. And perhaps, after all, he did...

  “I was straight from my bed with my beloved Sally a mere hair behind me as we both ran to where our daughter lay. She was sat upright, the bed linen clutched in her fists as if she wished to tear it apart. Her eyes were fixed to a point on the ceiling where, look as I might, I could see nothing. Visible to me or not, it was clear that Elsa believed something to be there. ‘Can you not see it squirm?’ she asked before her eyes rolled back in their sockets and she passed out.

  “I don’t mind telling you, Doctor, I thought she was done for. I have seen my fair share of death on the waves, oceans claim their number year on year and there’s not a man who has worked them that hasn’t seen death. In that moment, when my daughter fell slack in my arms, I was quite sure that all life had vanished from her, so light, so insubstantial was she as I held her face towards the candlelight, desperate for sign of breathing. No sooner had I convinced myself she was gone but she stiffened in my arms and opened her eyes.

  “‘Daddy?’ she asked, as if unsure for a moment who it was that held her.

  “‘That it is, my love,’ I assured her, ‘your mam and I are right here and there’s nothing to be afeared of.’ She smiled at that and, God help me, I’ve wondered since if that were the first sign of trouble.

  “We laid her back in her bed and returned to sleep, putting it down as nothing more than a dream on her part. It wasn’t until the following night that we were disillusioned of that fact.

  “Again, it was long after my wife and I had fallen asleep that Elsa’s attack came – yes, ‘attack’, I can think of no other word for it... We were woken by the sound of her cries and drew to her bedside in time to see her dash from the mattress and leap towards the ceiling of her room. I ran forward, eager to catch her before she fell, but imagine my surprise, Doctor, when she did no such thing. Her fingers adhered to the dry plaster above us as she pulled herself along towards the shadows in the corner of her small room. ‘It runs!’ she cried. ‘It tries to escape! I will have it! I will!’ She smacked at the ceiling as if trying to grind imaginary spiders beneath her
palms.

  “‘Elsa!’ Sally cried, unable to bear the sight of our daughter in such impossible circumstances. ‘Elsa!’

  “She stopped pounding at the ceiling and slowly turned her head towards us. Doctor, I know the face of my own child, so I trust you will believe me when I say that the face that looked down at me from the shadows of the eaves was most certainly not hers. It was a shining, waxy thing, a grinning mask of teeth and sweat, an evil face, Doctor, the face of whatever it was that had – in that moment – possessed my girl as its own.

  “My wife screamed and I may well have joined her, in truth I cannot remember. I will admit that the memory of that night is more than enough to make such a noise swell within my breast even now.

  “At the sound of my wife’s cry, Elsa returned to her own body. Her face softened in the light of the candles and her fingers lost whatever infernal magic they had possessed as she fell from the ceiling, dropping into my arms as I stepped beneath her.

  “Oh but how she burned, Doctor! Her whole body gave off the heat of hot coals. Indeed, for a moment my instinct was to drop her lest my own skin be singed. I took her back to her bed, making a face at my wife to stop her cries. I didn’t blame her for the reaction, but at that moment I wanted nothing more than for my daughter to return to sleep. I needed her to be normal again, to draw a veil over what we had seen.

  “I tucked her in and pulled my wife back to the doorway. Little Elsa made no fuss at all, she looked for all the world like a girl who had just roused from an unusual dream, perhaps in her head that’s all it was. Within a few minutes she was sleeping soundly and my wife and I withdrew to talk.

  “We’d heard of your more recent work, Doctor, having always held you in esteem after you saved me my livelihood. I’ll confess that some of the stories we heard sounded unbelievable. Even then, sir, believe me when I say we never doubted your reputation, just wondered whether exaggeration had crept into the telling. I mean, some of those stories...”

  “I have lived an interesting life of late,” I assured him, “whether the particular stories you heard were true or not I couldn’t say but rest assured I have seen enough not to dismiss your account.” At this reassurance he showed a considerable relief.

  “Even with all I’ve heard,” he admitted, “I half expected you to laugh in my face.”

  “Not a bit of it,” I insisted. “In fact, if you will give me a moment to grab my hat and coat I will return with you to see your daughter myself right away.”

  The gratitude in his eyes was considerable. It will not surprise you when I say that I have seen that look many times in my profession, the first step in helping these unfortunates is often simply believing their stories.

  I took the liberty of flagging down a hansom, time was of the essence and while my companion may not be accustomed to such decadent travel I am lucky enough to have the means.

  “I rarely travel by anything else,” interrupted Holmes.

  Silence gave a small smile. “I forgot, you do charge for your services don’t you? As you know I give my skills freely.”

  “You get what you pay for,” muttered my friend, lighting another cigarette, “and my time is deemed precious.”

  “Then let us waste no more of it,” Silence replied. “I shall continue...?”

  Holmes nodded impatiently.

  We made our way to Simcox’s rooms, the lower portion of a house near King’s Cross.

  The child was in her bed, despite the hour, and barely moved to acknowledge me as I entered with her father.

  “Here he is,” said Simcox to his wife. “Didn’t I say he’d help?”

  “You did,” she smiled at me, “and I never doubted it. Thank you for coming, Doctor.”

  “A pleasure,” I assured her, stooping down at the girl’s bedside. Even when the supernatural is suspected, I commence my investigation from a medical standpoint. Partially this is habit, but neither am I so blind a believer as to ignore the possibility of a rational explanation. A number of times I have been called to such cases of possession – for that was certainly what Simcox’s tale inferred – only to find clear medical reasons for such behaviour. Fever brings delirium and all manner of terrifying things may be uttered in the height of such a condition.

  “But such things could hardly account for her climbing across the ceiling,” I said.

  “Indeed not,” Silence agreed. “But then nothing natural could.”

  “No,” agreed Holmes. “If it happened exactly as Simcox described, it is indeed inexplicable. But please, continue... Unless you have another engagement?” Holmes had noticed the doctor glance briefly towards the clock on our mantel.

  “You may feel we both have,” the doctor replied, “though there is more than enough time as yet.”

  There was no fever in Elsa. Other than a faint sheen of dust on her palms – which I took to be from her, as you say, quite inexplicable journey across the ceiling – she gave no outward sign of the experiences her father had described.

  The medical examination thus satisfied, I progressed towards my more specialised area of expertise. I have, over the years, gathered a number of tools to facilitate my work. While much of what is commonly termed “the supernatural” takes place on a mental level, there are certain physical objects which I have found can help. Aids to concentration, herbs to engender a receptive state, crystals that may be used to focus certain energies... It was the latter that I retrieved from my bag, a small, opal-coloured gem given to me by a Dutch medium that I spent some months training with.

  The stone is intended to draw out spirits, to attract them from wherever they may have become entrenched so that the perceptive psychic may pin them down.

  At this explanation I noticed Holmes roll his eyes. Whether Silence caught the gesture or not he continued regardless.

  I placed the stone on the child’s forehead, stroking her cheek gently and reassuring her that all would soon be well – a somewhat overconfident statement I’ll admit, but I wished to put the poor girl at ease.

  I began an incantation which I often use in such circumstances. It’s a simple little rhyme, nothing inherently spiritual, but as an aid to clearing the mind, I have found it most effective.

  After only a few moments a change in the girl was obvious: her eyelids fluttering and her lips moving slowly as if trying to shape words but too tired to manage.

  I placed my fingers on the crystal and immediately she fixed me with a stare that was so intense and so malevolent that I froze, utterly unsure of myself.

  “Hello, Doctor,” she said, her voice recognisably Elsa’s and yet deeper, distorted. It was as if she were an old lady, the soft childish tones destroyed by years of abuse. “How good of you to visit.”

  I don’t mind admitting that, while I have been in a number of situations where I consider my soul to have been in peril, there was something in that voice, a tinge of amusement perhaps, that made me more afraid than I can ever remember. From the soft, innocent face of this child I was observed by eyes immeasurably older than my own. I had attended that girl’s bedside with a view to helping her, at that moment it felt as if it were I that was in need of assistance. I was a man considerably out of his depth and it took no more than those few words and the eyes of the being that said them to alert me to the fact.

  “To whom am I speaking?” I asked, not expecting an answer – names are power in this alternative science, gentlemen – but wishing to clarify the fact that I was aware that the creature I was addressing was no young child.

  The girl smiled and, again, it was an old smile, the sort of smile an adult would give to a young child who has just committed an amusing, precocious act.

  “You know better than that, Doctor,” she said, “though I have names to give you, none of them shall be my own.”

  “Names?” I asked.

  She nodded, then tilted her head back, teeth clenching as if in some state of ecstasy. The young girl’s skin rippled, as if fingers moved beneath it, caressing her
bones. I feared for the girl terribly then, quite sure that this thing had no intention of leaving her alive once its game was done. Its attention snapped back to me.

  “Yes,” she – no, it – continued, “three names: the first is Hilary De Montfort, the second is the Laird of Boleskine, the third is Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Ha!” My friend leapt to his feet, pulling a thin trail of smoke across the room as he returned to the bookcase. “It asked for me by name did it? My reputation has spread far indeed if it’s known even in the depths of Hell.”

  “Given the number of souls you have sent there in your time,” Silence replied, “it doesn’t surprise me at all.”

  Holmes was riffling through his collection of gazetteers and reference books. “Don’t mind me,” he muttered, running his fingers down indexes and flipping through pages, “pray continue.”

  “There is not much left to tell,” Silence admitted.

  Against all my expectations, having delivered the names, the girl convulsed and the creature’s influence lifted. The crystal, which had glowed faintly with the charge of energy, extinguished, and the girl relaxed back in her bed.

  “Elsa?” her mother asked. Both parents had held back while I had examined their daughter but I waved them forward now. There was no doubt in my mind that Elsa was once more herself. What I did not know – and still do not – was what was so important about those three names that a creature of such power would possess this child simply to pass them on. There was to be one more clue offered, but that came after I had taken my leave of Simcox and his family, reassuring him that his daughter was now free of whatever force had held her.

  I stepped back onto those bustling streets around the railways. An area of constant movement filled with infernal noise: the rattle of rolling stock, the screech of steam whistles, the carnival jollity of the street organ and ribald song that pours as inevitably from the many public houses as the singers once their pockets are emptied. It is an alien place that quarter, a world in which the laws and opinions of gentlemen are rarely sought. I confess therefore that I was somewhat on edge as I made my way towards the station. There seemed to me to be an awareness in the eyes of those around me that one moved amongst them who did not belong. There was a feeling of hostility, of intense observation, marking my every step towards the platforms of St Pancras. I confess I nearly changed my plans and hailed a hansom. Certainly I would have done so were it not for the mocking voice in my head that pointed out – quite truthfully – that I had faced demons from Hell itself and yet was now nervous upon the side streets of my own home city.