Gaslight Arcanum: Uncanny Tales of Sherlock Holmes

The Color That Came To Chiswick

by William Meikle

I hoped that my friend Sherlock Holmes would be more settled when I called on him that evening in May of ‘87. His recovery from his travails in France, and the subsequent excitement in Reigate, meant that a period of house rest was prescribed. As ever, he paid little attention to my ministrations and pleadings, and over the course of the previous fortnight had driven poor Mrs. Hudson to despair with a series of petty requests.

On my last visit she had pleaded with me to do my best to calm my patient. Indeed, she had worked herself into such a state that I do believe had any longer time passed it would have been her, and not Holmes, who would be coming under my ministrations.

It was Holmes himself who greeted me as I entered the house in Baker Street.

“Come in Doctor Watson,” he said in a near perfect impression of Mrs. Hudson’s Scots brogue. “You’ll be wanting some tea?”

He laughed, and fair bounded up the stairs to his apartment. I had not seen him in such good humour for several months.

I discovered why on entering his rooms … he had a new case. Several sheaves of paper lay scattered on his desk, his brass microscope was in use off to one side, and a glass retort bubbled and seethed above a paraffin burner. An acrid odor hung in the air, thick, almost chewable. The whole place reeked of it, despite the fact that the windows were all open to their fullest extent.

Holmes noticed my discomfort.

“It is nothing,” he said.

“I doubt Mrs. Hudson will agree,” I said.

“Do not worry Watson,” Holmes said. “Our esteemed landlady has gone to Earls Court with the widow Murray.”

“The Wild West show? Yes, I have seen the posters around town. It is said it will be a great spectacle.”

I had wished to inquire as to Holmes’ opinion on the authenticity of Mr. Cody’s show, but it was obvious that his mind was already elsewhere. He stood over the microscope, studying the slide contents intently.

“What have you got there Holmes?”

In answer he passed me a sheet of paper.

“This came in several hours ago.”

It was a note on letter-headed paper, from the Fullers Brewery in Chiswick, and addressed to Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective at this Baker Street address. The note proved to be short and to the point.

“Dear Mr. Holmes,” it began. “In the past three days we have encountered several problems with our brewing processes in our main Tuns. We suspect sabotage, but are unable to prove the cause, and our own chemists have drawn a blank. I have sent a sample from our latest fermentation, and would appreciate some of your time in its study. I shall be happy to discuss your remuneration by return of post.”

It was signed, Gerard Jones, Chief Brewer.

“Examine the paper,” Holmes said. “There is something peculiar on the left edge near the bottom.”

I immediately saw what he meant. The edge seemed bevelled and on closer examination proved to have a greenish tinge.

“What is it Holmes? Some form of algal growth perhaps?”

“That is what I am trying to determine,” Holmes replied. “But so far I am having little success.”

He motioned me towards a jar that had been partially hidden behind the microscope.

“The sample mentioned within the letter is there. See what you make of it Watson.”

As soon as I picked up the jar I knew I had never seen anything like it before.

The jar held a pint of fluid but it did not look like anything resembling any fermentation of ale I had ever seen. As I held it up towards my face the contents shifted and the acrid odor grew so strong that I almost gagged as it caught at the back of my throat. The fluid was thick, almost solid, and a deep emerald green. It flowed, as if the whole thing were a single organism.

“It seems to have some of the properties of a slime mould,” Holmes said. “And it responds to external stimuli with a range of defensive adaptations.”

Holmes took the jar from me and placed it close to the paraffin burner. The green substance surged, piling up against the glass wall of the container.

“And this is in the vats in the brewery?”

Holmes nodded.

“It would appear so. Our task is to prove whether it has been introduced deliberately, or whether it is an accident of nature … of some kind.”

Holmes allowed me to study the sample he had mounted on the slide. There was no evidence of any cellular structure, or any differentiation in the material. Nothing existed to show that the thing was in any way alive. Yet it clearly moved. Even the small amount present on the slide pushed and surged against its confines with such violence that I stood back quickly in surprise. In doing so I knocked the bottom stage of the microscope, and swung the mirror away such that it no longer lit on the slide. I bent to rectify the problem but stopped as soon as I looked in the eyepiece.

Despite the lack of light I could still clearly see the sample. It glowed, giving forth a faint green luminescence. When I pointed this out to Holmes he at once drew the curtains and dimmed the lamps. It immediately became apparent that there was far more to our problem material than we realized.

The full expanse of Holmes’ desk glowed a sickly green, the miasma hanging in the air a full two feet or more above the surface. Holmes showed me his hands … they too shone dimly.

I frog-marched him downstairs and both of us scoured our hands with carbolic soap until no trace of green remained. When we went back upstairs the sight that met us made us pause in the doorway.

The curtains were still closed, however the darkness only accentuated the effect. The sample jar sat square in the middle of Holmes’ desk and the air seemed to dance, an aurora of light hovering in an almost perfect globe around it.

Armed with vinegar and salt I set to cleaning and disinfecting as much as I could see. Holmes could scarcely take his eyes from the jar and merely stood, contemplating the sheer strangeness of it, as I worked.

I was nearly finished in my task when a knock came downstairs. Holmes requested that I answer, and I went down, opening the door to Inspector Lestrade. He too was given pause by the sight of the jar on the desk, and might have been standing there yet, had Holmes not pressed him about his business. Even then he did not take his eyes from the jar.

“I understand you are commissioned on following up on the sabotage at the Fullers Brewery?”

Holmes refused to either confirm or deny this fact, as Lestrade continued.

“The saboteur has upped the ante,” he said. “We have a brewer in hospital and foul play is suspected … a poison as yet unidentified.” He was still staring at the desk. “I presume this came from Chiswick?”

As ever Holmes stayed quiet, but he did request that I accompany Lestrade to the hospital to talk to the stricken man.

Holmes motioned towards the jar.

“The study of this requires more rigor than I can provide here,” he said. “I shall remove this to the safety of a laboratory at the University and seek council from several Society Fellows. I shall meet you later in the Brewery.”

Lestrade was unusually quiet in the carriage on the way to the hospital, and would not speak of the condition of the victim.

“I would rather not prejudice your opinion Doctor,” was all he would say on the matter. I began to understand why when I was shown into a small room in the hospital. The corridor outside smelled strongly of carbolic soap, and I noted a strange reticence on the part of the staff to venture close to the doorway.

I walked inside to find a young man writhing on the bed, tearing at his throat.

I called for assistance and moved to his aid. A bloody dressing, a green smudge clearly visible, lay discarded on the bedcovers. The man’s head turned to look at me. The whole bottom half of his face was a bubbling mess of green-tinged gore.

Lestrade came quickly to my side and pinned the man’s arms, holding him down. Just the sight of us seemed to calm him somewhat, but he was obviously in great pain. His wounds seethed, the green slime seeming to feast on his flesh. I have seen many men die of disease and corruption in warmer climes, but nothing of this speed or destructive capability.

I had just bent to tend to the man when he screamed louder and his eye popped. Green-tinged fluid ran down his cheek and started to bubble at the join of neck and shoulder. The covers fell away from his chest and Lestrade moved aside, retching. Below the waist there was little left of the man, merely a rolling mess of green slime. The patient was past caring. He gripped my left hand tight and squeezed, just once, before the life went out of him completely.

I decided not to wait to see if the slime would continue progressing after the death of its host. I dragged a sickly-looking Lestrade from the room and called once more for assistance. This time it was forthcoming.

The poor man’s remains were quickly removed, and both Lestrade and I went with them to the incinerator, standing there for long minutes to ensure that the job was done properly. I also ensured that all who had been in contact with the patient, Lestrade and myself included, washed thoroughly with soap and hot water. I checked us both for any hint of the slime. Lestrade continued to look pale and sickly, even after I gave us the all clear.

“What in God’s name did that to the man?” he asked me. I’m afraid I did not have an answer for him. But I resolved there and then to find out. I would not stand to watch any more men die in such a fashion — not if I were able to do something about it.

I left Lestrade in the hospital to clear up the situation and headed for the brewery.

It was late evening by the time a cab deposited me outside the brewery. The sound of cheering and applause came faintly across the river from where Mrs. Hudson was no doubt enjoying the spectacle of gunplay and horsemanship. Standing there in the quiet dark I began to regret not bringing my own weapon on the trip.

There was no sign of Holmes, or indeed of anyone else. I knew that any large London brewery should be running an overnight operation, given the thirst of the population for their product. For the brewery to be sitting in darkness was an ominous sign. I considered waiting for Holmes, but all my thoughts were of that poor man’s pitiful death in the hospital room. I had a feeling that, if I wanted to stop further deaths, I would need to move quickly. This contagion had a manner that suggested it would spread rapidly. It was not as Holmes’ companion, but as a doctor, that I crossed the road to the brewery.

I was grateful for what little light came from the gas lamps around the walls, but their flame only accentuated the shadows in the tall empty hall. Four large copper vats dominated the large room. The air smelled almost sweet, with a hint of bitterness where fresh hops joined the tang of fermentation. Beneath these well-remembered odors I also sensed something new — a hint of the same acrid tang that had assaulted my nasal passages back in Holmes’ room. Before I stepped further than the doorway I peered into all the corners, searching for any trace of the luminescence. I found none. Nevertheless it was with some trepidation that I stepped inside.

It was obvious to me that someone had deliberately introduced a poisonous material into the brewing vats. Their reason was as yet unclear to me, but the thought that this might have been going on for some time made my blood run cold. There might even, at this very moment, be drinkers quaffing tainted ales all across the capital. In my mind’s eye I saw the slime seethe in the flagons, saw the terror in the drinkers’ eyes as the contagion took them and started to feed. The fear of the consequences strengthened my resolve. I moved further inside.

A cloud moved. Suddenly moonlight washed through the hall from above. It made my search somewhat easier. I found nothing around the nearer of the two vats and almost relaxed. That all changed when I rounded the third vat and almost walked into a mist of green luminescence. As I moved closer I saw that it rose from a body on the floor — the remains of what had been a man, but was now a seething mass of green protoplasm. The slime seemed to notice my presence and began to slump and flow over the brewery floor, moving so quickly that I was forced to take several steps backwards.

My retreat was halted as the luminescence swelled and flared, engulfing me in a globe of dancing light. At once I felt calm, almost serene. Shadows flitted around me, wraiths made of little more than thin green fog. I felt no fear, no compulsion to run — merely the innocent curiosity of a child. I stepped forward towards the rolling carpet of green.

The arrival of my friend Sherlock Holmes saved my life. All he did was place a hand on my shoulder, but that was sufficient to break the spell under which I had been placed. I looked down to see the green slime merely inches from my brogues and getting closer.

Holmes stepped forward and threw a handful of white powder over the green carpet. It immediately retreated, black pustules bubbling and bursting across the surface. My eyes started to sting and water. Holmes turned and smiled grimly, showing me another handful of white powder.

“Caustic soda,” he said. “It seems to be efficacious.”

He wore a canvas satchel over his shoulder. It gaped wide, showing it to be crammed full with the powder. Before I could inquire further Holmes strode away from me, following the retreating slime.

“Come Watson,” he called. “Let us beard Grendel in his lair.”

I followed, keeping a safe distance from the scattering of lye.

The slime dragged itself away before the powder. A high, fluting cacophony echoed and whistled around us, as if the bubbling pustules screamed in agony. Within seconds Holmes had the remains of the creature cornered under the copper vat in the leftmost rear of the brewery.

Holmes continued to throw handfuls of lye, at the same time calling out to me over his shoulder.

“Watson. I have need of your old pen-knife.”

I moved forward, following Holmes’ gaze. There was a large dent in the tun just above head height. Deep inside was a small lump of darker material, like a pebble embedded in the copper.

I took out my knife and started to work the lump free while Holmes kept the carpet of slime at bay. I was so intent on my task I did not notice the new arrivals on the brewery floor, only becoming aware of them when Holmes called out in despair.

“No. Not yet!”

I managed to free the pebble and dropped it into my waistcoat pocket. I turned to see three men clad in oilskins standing behind Holmes. They each carried long hoses and were spraying the floor all around. Suddenly the place smelled less like a brewery and more like a hospital as soap and bleach washed over our feet.

My brogues were ruined, as were Holmes’ leather boots, but he had not yet noticed. His gaze was fixed on a drain in the center of the floor. It sat in a slight dip, so that all spillage would flow towards it. The pressure from the hoses washed across the slime and sent it sailing in bubbling foam.

“Stop!” Holmes called, but it was too late. The last hint of the green substance disappeared down to the sewers below.

We found Lestrade out in the street coordinating proceedings. The hosing down of the brewery went on for several hours while we stood outside, smoking and keeping an eye out for any return of either the slime or the luminescence. After a time Lestrade announced himself satisfied and called off the clear up. Holmes proved harder to satisfy. He insisted on waiting until almost dawn, spending the intervening hours stalking the floor and peering in every corner of the brewery. Twice he asked to see the pebble I had dug from the vat. Both times he returned it to me with a grunt of displeasure. The sun was throwing an orange tinge across the sky before I was finally able to persuade him to leave.

He said nothing in the carriage on the journey to Baker Street, merely sat, elbows on his thighs and fingers steepled at his lips, deep in thought.

Mrs. Hudson ministered to our hunger, providing a hearty breakfast that I took to with gusto. Holmes scarcely ate a mouthful. He had already taken the pebble from me, and pored over it intently, subjecting it to a variety of assays and investigations. By the time I finished my breakfast he seemed to have come to some conclusions. He called me over and handed me a magnifying lens.

“I believe we have found our source,” he said to me. I immediately saw what he meant. The pebble was a small rough stone. Holmes had managed to slice it in half and I looked down at the inner hemisphere. There was a small hollow almost dead center, hardly bigger than my little finger nail. It carried the barest tinge of green.

“The stone itself is mostly iron,” Holmes said. “With a trace of nickel. I do believe you are holding your first visitor from beyond this world.”

After that Holmes seemed to settle somewhat. We sat by the fire and lit our pipes. He repeatedly quizzed me on my experience inside the luminescence.

“It was dashed peculiar Holmes,” I said. “I have experienced something similar before, while watching a Swami perform the rope trick in Delhi, but even there I felt in control. This time it felt like my very will had been drained from me. If you had not intervened, I do believe I would have given myself to it.”

Holmes nodded, and went back to staring into the fire.

I left in the early morning to fulfill an obligation to a sick friend. When I returned Holmes was scarcely in any better spirits. I found him on the doorstep, delivering instructions to a group of urchins who were gathered around him as he distributed pennies.

As I entered I saw Mrs. Hudson packing cleaning materials back into the cupboard.

“Please Doctor. Can you not get him to settle? He’ll be the death of me with all this commotion.”

Holmes seemed oblivious to his landlady’s protestations.

“We must be vigilant,” he said, as we once more sat by the fire. “As a doctor you well know the dangers of contagion re-emerging after a period of dormancy.”

I saw that a black mood had descended on my friend, one that only action might shift, but there was no news forthcoming. In the late afternoon I went to stoke the fire. I searched for the old pair of bellows I customarily used, but they were nowhere to be found, and Holmes merely smiled at my mention of them.

We sat in conversation as darkness started to fall once again, our discussions ranging wildly with much speculation as to the nature of the green organism. Despite our intellects, we were unable to come to any firm conclusions. And I disagreed vehemently with one proffered by Holmes.

“I suspect a rudimentary intelligence is at work,” Holmes said. “That much was obvious in the way you yourself were lured into the trap.”

I tried to argue the case for instinct, citing many examples in the animal world of trap setting, but by then Holmes was once again deep in thought. I contented myself with a fresh pipe of tobacco as I made some notes on the progress of the case so far.

Matters came to a head in the late evening.

“My eyes and ears are ready for anything out of the usual,” Holmes had said.

The news brought by the urchin who came to the door certainly qualified as out of the usual. To my eyes he looked like any other grime-ingrained child of the streets, but Holmes immediately saw something I had not.

“It is on a boat?” he asked, even before the child had spoken.

The child smiled, showing more gaps than teeth.

“That it is Mr. Holmes sir. ‘Tis down at Vauxhall Bridge. They say ‘tis a ghost ship, for it is all quiet and green like. Ain’t nobody going near ‘till the coppers have had a look. That Inspector Lestrade has been sent for.”

Holmes gave the lad a thrupenny bit and sent him on his way. I was dispatched to find a cab. Holmes himself went back inside and returned wearing a heavy coat. It seemed to bulge at the back, as if he carried something bulky underneath, but I knew from experience not to ask until he was ready for his revelation.

I only asked one question on the trip down to Vauxhall.

“How did you know about the boat Holmes?”

He smiled thinly.

“The boy had fresh pitch on his fingers. I smelled it even before I saw it. There is only one place you find tar of that sort — on the deck of a boat.”

He said no more as we bounced through the city, rattling like peas inside the cab. Holmes had requested speed and offered extra payment. The driver did not disappoint and had us at Vauxhall in record time, if a little shaken.

A small crowd had gathered on the bridge, looking down at a moored boat. Despite the fact it was not quite yet full dark, the luminescence was immediately apparent, a dancing green light that ran up the masts and along the rigging of the schooner. The gathered watchers had the good sense to stay well back.

The same could not be said of the two policemen down on the dock itself. Holmes shouted a warning, but they took no heed, stepping onto the boat while we were as yet too far away to go to their aid. By the time Holmes and I descended the steps to the dock the policemen had already gone aboard and disappeared down into the hold.

Holmes was in no mood to wait. He ran down the steps and I was hard pressed to keep up with him as he jumped on board the boat. I joined him at the hatchway leading to the hold. I realized we were already inside the glow of the luminescence, but I felt none of the compulsion I had undergone earlier. Nevertheless my heart beat a little faster as we went down in to the bowels of the vessel.

Screams rose from beneath us. Holmes shed his overcoat. I stood behind him so was not able to see the full scope of the apparatus, but he carried two metal tanks on his back, secured at the shoulders with thick canvas straps. The tanks looked heavy, but did not slow Holmes as he descended the steep steps to the hold. Saying a silent prayer I followed close behind.

At first it seemed we stood in impenetrable darkness but as my eyes adjusted I began to make out shape and shadow around us. The screams we had followed had already faded, replaced by the sound of piteous weeping to our left. I could make out Holmes ahead of me as we moved towards the wails.

We were too late to do anything for the poor policemen. One lay dead, green foam at lips and ears. The other would be following him soon. Most of his chest was a bubbling ruin. He tried to speak but green fluid poured from his mouth and even as I bent to his aid he fell back, eyes wide, staring, unseeing.

I realized I could see Holmes’ face, his pale features seemingly behind a green mask. I turned to see the source of this new light. The entire far end of the hold was an aurora, sickly green shot through with an oily sheen, which cast rainbows before it. Under other circumstances it might even be called beautiful.

Below the swirling lights lay a darker patch that seemed to ripple. I saw two ale casks, broken into splinters — the source of this recent outbreak.

Holmes walked forward towards it. I saw he held his fire-bellows in hand. A soft hose led to the tank on his back. He pushed the bellows together and sent a spray of liquid ahead of him. I smelled bleach. The shimmering light flared then faded and the dark green mass retreated.

Holmes kept walking, close enough to reach out towards the green luminescence.

“Careful, Holmes,” I called.

“I must know,” he said, almost a whisper. “Is it an invader, or a missionary?”

Before I could stop him he stepped inside the glow. I was about to step up beside him, but he raised a hand. I heard his voice as if from a great distance.

“Stay back Watson,” he said. “This won’t take but a minute.”

The dancing light played around him and the green carpet at his feet seethed, but still Holmes stood perfectly still. I saw him reach forward with his free hand and play it through the light. A new rainbow followed his movements.

“Fascinating,” I heard him say, then he went completely quiet. The slime at his feet started to creep again, moving towards Holmes. He showed no sign of trying to avoid or avert it. I moved to one side to look at his face. He had a glazed, far off look, lost in reverie.

He had fallen into its snare.

With a yell I leapt forward, just as the slime surged. As he had done for me, I placed a hand on his shoulder. At once the spell was broken … and just in time. The light flared so bright as to be almost blinding. At the same moment the slime surged, again a wave flowing over Holmes’ feet and ankles. He pushed at the bellows, twice, spraying bleach around us. Once again I heard the high fluting screams, deafening in the confines of the hold, as pustules formed and burst all across the creeping carpet.

The slime retreated.

I pulled at Holmes’ shoulder.

“Quick Holmes, let us beat a retreat before it returns.”

“Not yet, Watson, there is something at the heart of this that bends its will against us. I would rather like to have a look at it.”

He projected more bleach in the direction of the slime and it fell back.

It was darker now, the luminescence having shrunk and faded until it ran in a layer less than an inch thick over the surface of the rolling slime. We followed its retreat across the hold until we stood before the burst and broken barrels. The remains of the slime had retreated to the shelter of a curved section that seemed nearly intact.

Holmes motioned me forward and we peered into the gloom.

“Take a close look Watson,” Holmes said. “We may never see its like again.”

A darker patch of green sat there in the midst of the last small puddle of slime, an oval shape like a large dark egg. An oily green sheen ran over it and it pulsed rhythmically, almost as if it were breathing.

“Is this the source of the contagion?” I asked.

Holmes nodded.

“Although I am no longer sure of its intelligence. I detected nothing while under its influence to suggest it is anything other than what it seems.”

I watched the thing pulse.

“And what do you suggest Holmes? We cannot allow this thing to escape into the general population.”

Holmes was deep in thought.

“Indeed Watson. And while the scientists at the University would love to study this, there is a chance that the military would gain hold of it. I have heard of their experiments with Mustard gas. This thing would merely give them another excuse for developing weapons of terrible destruction.”

I could see it in my mind. Whole battalions marching on a field of green, heads raised to the heavens in screams as they melted from the feet up.

My decision was simple.

“End it Holmes. End it here.”

He nodded and squeezed the bellows. The slime surged, one last time, and then fell back, smoking. One final high whistle pierced the air then it was gone.

We stood there for a long time, watching, but all that remained of the terror from beyond was a patch of blackened material among the broken debris of the barrels.

* * * * *

WILLIAM MEIKLE is a Scottish writer with ten novels published in the genre press and over 200 short story credits in thirteen countries. He is the author of the ongoing Midnight Eye series among others, and his work appears in a number of professional anthologies. He lives in a remote corner of Newfoundland with icebergs, whales and bald eagles for company. In the winters he gets warm vicariously through the lives of others in cyberspace and drinks a lot of beer … some of it from Chiswick.