Gaslight Arcanum: Uncanny Tales of Sherlock Holmes

The Executioner

by Lawrence C. Connolly

I awoke in an overstuffed bed, in a chamber larger than the whole of my London rooms. Coal burned in the fireplace, but the main source of light came from electric bulbs in two wall-mounted sconces, each trailing a wire that snaked along the wall before vanishing into a hole beside a curtained window.

A cabinet stood open near the fireplace. A tweed suit hung inside. Beside the cabinet, on a dressing table, lay an array of personal items: shirt, collar, tie, leather case. Of these, all but the case appeared to be mine. How they and I had come to be here, I had no idea. Nor did I know where here was.

There was a darkness in me, an emptiness that suggested I had slept far longer than a single night. Yet I recalled no dreams, only the distant memories of a cliff, water, and the body of a man broken on jagged rocks. I had tracked him across the continent, seven-hundred miles to a precipice in the Swiss mountains. The chase had ended there, with him lying dead at the base of a cataract, and I remember looking down at him, watching his body grow larger, expanding in my view as if his broken remains were rising toward me. But in truth it was I who was moving, hurtling downward, still pursuing him even as he lay smashed below the falls. And then, just as the speed of my plunge reduced his body to a blur, I hit the water.

After that, I remembered nothing.

I pushed back the covers and tried getting up. My body ached, the pain worsening as I swung my legs over the side of the bed, looking down at what should have been the floor. But in that instant, it was as if I were back on the cliff, losing my grip on a jagged ledge….

I blinked.

The memory receded. The floor returned. No body beneath me now, only a pair of slippers, fleece-lined, scuffed along the toes. I put them on, feeling their familiar indentations. Like the things in the cabinet and on the table, the slippers were mine.

I found a chamber pot beneath the bed. It was chipped but clean. I knelt beside it, still trying to make sense of where I was. Then I stood and crossed the room, shuffling like a man twice my age, coming at last to the window where I pushed back the curtains and looked out at a moon-lit night. Mountains cut the horizon, jagged peaks of rock and pine. Water roared, muted by distance. Reichenbach, I thought. I’m still in Meiringen. I pressed my face to the window, looking for the falls, seeing only a curl of mist rising from a chasm halfway between me and the distant peaks. And on the edge of the precipice….

I cupped my hands around my face, blocking the glare from the electric lights until I discerned a silhouetted man standing on a ledge. He wore a greatcoat, hem billowing in the wind. But other than that, and the long hair that whipped about his head, he stood so still that he might have been a statue.

The glass fogged. I wiped it with my sleeve, but when I looked again the figure was gone.

I turned from the window, this time noticing a dining cart and chair behind the dressing table. Had they been there before? A covered tray sat atop the cart, as did a pitcher, drinking glass, smoking kit, and a large sealed envelope. I left the window and raised the cover on the tray: bread, cheese, smoked meats. I covered them again, sat in the chair, and inspected the smoking kit. The case was mine, as were the contents. I took out the pipe, filled its bowl, and turned my attention to the envelope. Inside, I found a letter written on a single sheet of foolscap, folded twice. The handwriting was of a size comparable to the paper: large, elegant, and executed without a single blot or amendment.

It read:

Dear Mr. H:

If you are awake and reading this, then my efforts to restore you have succeeded. You no doubt have many questions, as do I. To that end, I propose a test, one which may commence whenever you are ready.

The procedure is simple.

I would like you to dress as soon as you are able. Leave your room and descend the staircase at the end of the hall. From there, you will make your way to a lighted chamber on the ground-floor. One of my servants will be waiting. Do not let his appearance alarm you. He will give you no worry as long as you move directly to the chair that awaits you.

You are to sit in the chair and remain in it until the conclusion of our interview, which will commence shortly after you are seated. The chair will be partitioned from the rest of the room by a velvet rope. Under no circumstances are you to venture beyond the rope.

If these instructions seem eccentric, I apologize; but I assure you they are absolutely necessary. Perhaps, soon, you will understand my reasons for them. In any event, your cooperation is not requested, it is absolutely required.

You may be wondering about the personal items in your room. Many of them are indeed yours, sent here at my request by your brother Mycroft. One of the exceptions is a pharmaceutical case. Considering your condition, I thought it prudent to supply something for your pain.

The food is from my private stores, the water the purest in Switzerland.

There is no need to thank me for any of these things. Nor do I expect thanks for having pulled you from the Aare. Indeed, it is I who am indebted to you for an opportunity to test my procedures, and possibly to untangle a knot that I have been wrestling with since the night of your fall.

In light of such considerations, I remain…

your host, caregiver, and

most humble servant,—

M Adam

The clothes were indeed mine.

I dressed slowly, favouring my right leg, hip, and shoulder, which I realized, once I had removed my nightshirt, were badly bruised. I found a pocketbook in the jacket pocket. It was new, as were the banknotes inside. A heavy weight in another pocket proved to be a Webley revolver. I had begun carrying one like it in response to threats from the man who had become my obsession, the man I had last seen smashed on the rocks at the base of the falls.

I did not bother with the pharmaceutical case. My pain was severe, but anything strong enough to take away its edge would certainly do the same to my wits.

Leaving the case on the table, I left the room.

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—”

“You mentioned a test.”

“I did.” Again, he started toward the door.

“So I assume it has begun,” I said. “This meeting is part of it, as is my dismissal. You tell me I can leave, but it’s really a challenge … a challenge for me to stay. Am I correct?”

He paused within the doorway. “I give you my leave, Mr. Holmes. You may take it as you wish.” He bowed, deeper than before, then left me alone with the servant.

I pushed up from the chair. “One moment!” I advanced toward the ropes. “One last question!” The vertigo came again. I felt myself falling, and then….

“No, sir!” Giant hands grabbed my shoulder, turned me toward the door. “Not that way.” The servant led me from the chair, directing me back the way I had come.

The ground floor hall was lighted now, with electric sconces illuminating the line of paintings that I had hurried past on my way to meet my mysterious saviour. Most of the art depicted scenes similar to those in the upstairs hall, but one was different, the portrait of a man with delicate features, rendered in the romantic style of the Regency Era. It depicted a young scholar seated amid old-world ruins: a crumbling arch, fallen walls, distant mountains. A journal lay open on his lap. He held a finger to his head, thinking as he peered from the painted canvas: wide brown eyes, straight nose, pensive lips, pale skin. I knew those features, having seen them before in the faces of God in the upstairs paintings. But there was something else….

I stepped closer, reading the inscription:

“Posthumous Portrait”

by M Adam 1872

after J. Severn 1845

The servant watched from the library arch, peering at me from around the doorframe. The lights were still on behind its massive head, but, as the opening stood at a right angle to the hall, I could not see the room, only the light spilling from the arch.

“Do you need anything?” the servant asked.

I pointed to the painting of the young scholar. “Who is this?” I asked.

“The master’s father, sir.”

So that was it. M Adam’s paintings of God the creator had been modelled on the likeness of his own father. Yet I sensed there was more meaning here, a more poignant connection.

“What was the father’s name?” I asked

“It was Victor, sir.”

“Victor Adam?”

“No, sir,” the servant said. “Adam is what the master calls himself. It is not a family name. The father was Victor Frankenstein.”

Yes, that was it!

I looked at the face in the painting, recognizing the wan complexion of the audacious Genovese student whose autobiography had caused a sensation in the early part of the century.

I knew the story.

Victor Frankenstein had died on board an arctic vessel. He had been 27, widowed, childless, and obsessed with tracking down and destroying an artificial man of his own design.

I considered these things, wondering if it were possible that my host, the man who had restored my life, might be the artificial man described in the young scholar’s book. But that artificial man — or creature, for surely such a thing could not be considered a man — had supposedly died in the arctic along with his creator. And even if the creature had survived, the events recounted in the scholar’s book had taken place over a century ago. The creature, if it still lived, would hardly resemble the hearty, dark-skinned man I had just met in the library. And there was something else, the matter of size. One of the most striking details from the scholar’s book had been the creature’s stature — eight feet tall, according to the text.

The man I had just met was of average height. Or so he had seemed.

“Excuse me, sir.” The servant sounded impatient. “May I help you to your room?”

“No.” I turned from the painting. “But I should like to have another look in that library.”

“Sorry, sir.” The servant stepped into the hall, not blocking my way, but letting me see that he was prepared to do so if necessary. Even if my body were not battered and sore, I would be no match for those orangutan arms.

“Some questions, then,” I said. “Will you answer some questions?”

“Sorry, sir. I believe my master wants you to find those on your own.” And with that he stepped back through the arch and swung the door closed from the inside. The hall rang with the click of an engaging latch, leaving me alone with a clear sense of what I needed to do.

I turned and shuffled toward the stairs.

My bad leg was throbbing by the time I reached my room. I opened the pharmaceutical case, finding that it held a hypodermic syringe and six glass vials of morphine. I opened one of the vials, filled the syringe, and placed it back inside the holder. I did not secure the clasps, but instead simply folded the case closed before slipping it into the pocket of my coat. Next I checked the pistol, opening the gate to make sure it was satisfactorily armed. Then I closed it again, aligning the hammer with the empty chamber. Finally, I opened my smoking kit, removed my pipe tools, and left the room.

The lights in the upstairs hall were much dimmer than before. M Adam no longer needed me to see the paintings. I realized, as I hurried past them, that he had been playing many moves ahead of me the entire night. Now, descending the stairs, I resisted the urge to think that I had gained on him. Chances were he was still playing me, manoeuvring from a position of strength.

The door to the library was still closed. I looked through the keyhole. All the lights were still on.

Left on for me. He expects me to break in.

Using my pipe tools (the spoon to apply torque while the poker worked the pins) I picked the lock and opened the door. Then I entered. The chair and velvet rope stood as before, their careful arrangement pointing to the room’s sole purpose — not as a library, but as something far more specialized.

I closed the door behind me and stepped forward, past the ropes and toward the centre of the room. With each step, the room changed. Shelves that had appeared parallel when viewed from the chair now appeared out of plumb. Likewise, framed paintings lost their squared corners, becoming trapezoids. And the floor, which had appeared level from the edge of the room, now sloped downward beneath a rising ceiling. These realities, which had previously been masked by both the precise positioning of the chair in which I had been sitting and the carefully controlled lighting of the room, were now plainly obvious.

M Adam’s chair grew as I approached it, towering over me. I reached up to grasp its armrest, resting my leg as I looked at the door through which M Adam had entered the room. I now saw that the opening had indeed been designed to accommodate a man of gigantic stature, easily eight-foot tall, possibly more.

I was still contemplating the significance of it all when someone called from the short end of the room. The voice rang out, musical but nonetheless threatening. Looking around, I saw the servant standing near the hallway door. The same slanted lines that had reduced M Adam to normal proportions now expanded the servant to gigantic size. More than ever, he resembled one of those jungle orangutans, with a massive body dwarfed only by the size of its gigantic head and arms.

“You were told not to return here!” the servant said.

“Yes.” I stepped away from the chair, steadying myself on both legs, trying not to look as wounded and vulnerable as I felt. “I was told that, but I was goaded to the contrary.” I reached into my pocket and removed the pharmaceutical case, hiding it behind the chair while the servant started toward me, steadying itself on giant arms as the floor sloped downward. The monster seemed to shrink as it moved, but the loss of stature did nothing to allay the threat. By the time the beast man had reached the centre of the room, it was charging.

I gripped the syringe, waiting until the thing was almost on me. Then I swung the needle around, jabbed it deep, and squeezed the plunger. By then the huge hands had grabbed me, throwing me down, pinning me to the floor beside the doorway. For a moment I flashed to my last memory of Reichenbach Falls, being pinned against a high ledge with a madman straddling my chest. My training in the eastern arts had served me then. I had been able to use my opponents force against him. But here the opposing weight was too great. I was at the mercy of the beast man, helpless to resist as it grabbed me tight and lifted me from the floor. Then, as it prepared to throw me across its back and carry me from the room, its face went slack. In a blink, we were both falling: beast man crashing against the base of the chair, me landing atop him.

My hip spasmed. I rolled away, forced myself into a crouch, and tried standing. The pain intensified. I slumped back against the chair, bracing myself while the servant breathed noisily, lying on its back, eyes open but seeing nothing.

The syringe and case had fallen near the chair. I crawled toward them. Nothing was broken, but still I resisted taking an injection, using my will to ignore the pain as I stood, crossed to the gigantic doorway, and entered the space within.

The way veered left, opening into a lighted corridor. The walls were stone, older than the wood-panelled rooms and halls behind me. But here, as before, the lights were electrical, bolted to the walls and trailing wires that snaked toward a chamber about twenty feet back from the forced-perspective room.

I paused, slipped the pharmaceutical case back into my pocket, and drew the pistol. Then I pushed on, watching the chamber’s interior come into view: tables strewn with strange instruments, walls affixed with snaking wires and twitching dials, air reverberating with the hum of unseen engines. And over all of it, becoming clearer as I passed through the doorway, a long shadow that could only belong to my host and saviour, the giant who called himself Adam.

“Impressive,” he said, speaking to me even before I had completely entered the room. “You do justice to your reputation. I can only hope that you do not think the same of me.”

I found him sitting with his back to the door. This time, I saw him as he was: a creature of astounding proportions, so large that I might have taken him for a statue. He kept his back to me, dabbing a bit of paint on an easel-mounted canvas. He was working on a reproduction of Pieter Brueghel’s Fall of Icarus, which he seemed to be painting from memory. The canvas, like the artist himself, was enormous.

“You may put the pistol back in your pocket.” He spoke without looking around. “I did not provide it to be used against me.” He lowered his brush, turned slowly, and gave me the benefit of his magnificent face, a countenance more like that of a god than a monster, with a complexion so uniform that it might have been fashioned from silk. No blemishes or scars, and yet the face filled with wrinkles as he smiled, seeming almost to shrivel as he flashed rows of marble teeth. He seemed pleased to see me. “So you have your answers, Mr. Holmes? Have you deduced who I am? What I am?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Say it then. What am I? What is it they call me in the world I am hiding from? What is my name out there?”

“Frankenstein’s monster,” I said.

His smile broadened, wrinkles deepened. “Really? His monster? Not simply Frankenstein?”

“I’ve heard that, too,” I said.

“And what about other things? How my father stitched me together from cadavers, gave me a criminal’s brain?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve heard that, though I don’t recall your father’s book mentioning such things.”

“People make their own versions,” he said. “Things become grander in the retelling; more sensational.”

“It’s much the same with stories about me,” I said. “I’m hardly the master of deduction that people think I am.”

“I wondered about that,” the creature said. “It’s why I decided to test you, gauge your resourcefulness, your commitment to solving a mystery. From what I can see, the reputation does you justice.” The creature stood, towering over me. “I need to show you something.” He turned, heading toward an antechamber and the sound of humming engines.

I followed.

“I understand that people don’t believe my father’s story,” he said. “Probably because so few of them have actually read his book.” He looked down at me. “But you have?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Did you believe it?” he asked. “Before tonight, before meeting me face to face, did you believe such things were possible?”

“No.” I said. “I took it for fiction.”

“But you did read the book?” he said, pressing the point that seemed to matter a great deal to him. “And you recall how my father became a student of the human form, its growth and decay? How he studied the dead to create life? Not to reassemble pieces that had once lived, but to make a new kind of man — wiser, stronger, more beautiful than any that had ever been born of natural means.”

“But by your father’s own account, the creature was neither wise nor beautiful.”

“Yes,” Adam said. “But that was his madness talking. He disowned me, and I suffered as a result. And he did, too. I saw to that. Before it was over, we had lured and pursued each other to the brink of ruin. I survived, but only by virtue of his handiwork. He had endeavoured to make me immortal, and so he had. In that, at least, he had succeeded.”

We crossed the threshold into the adjacent room, into the drone of compressors and electric current. Vats lined the walls, metal tanks that appeared to be fashioned from locomotive boilers, each fitted with portals too high for me to look through.

“Do you recall the part of my father’s story that deals with size?” he asked.

“You mean about the difficulties of working in human scale?”

“Yes.” He paused beside a portal. “I have the same problem.” He bent down, bringing his face level with mine. “I’ll show you.” He extended his hands. Together, they encircled my torso. “Do you trust me?”

I looked him in the eye and discerned no trace of malevolence. “All right,” I said.

He took hold, lifting me from the floor. I felt like Dante in the hands of Antaeus, putting my faith in a force that could crush me if it wished. But the grip was gentle, warm. I gave myself over to it as the giant man held me to a portal. Inside, I saw one of the orangutan creatures, like the servant I had left sedated in the library. It was naked but sexless. Indeed, the parts of its body that were human size lacked any detail at all. The arms and head, however, were fully realized.

“They are the best I’ve been able to do,” he said. “Their internal organs are no larger than yours, yet they fail quickly. I would give them normal-sized arms and heads, but I need servants who can think, speak, and use their hands. Until I can maintain function at smaller scales, I need to compromise.” He pulled me away from the portal, lowered me back to the floor. “I’m making progress,” he said. “One day I’ll be able to create servants who can travel freely through the world of ordinary men, go into town, procure supplies. Until then, I must make do with written correspondences and the trust of a few local business men.”

“They come here?” I asked, realizing there was no way he himself could blend inconspicuously with the company of men.

“Yes,” he said. “We meet in the library. It’s better that way. Some of them know the ruse. A few don’t. I trust, given the money they make on my investments, that none of them really care that I am a monster.”

“You built the room yourself?”

He nodded. “It took years. The entire house took years. But I’ve had time. I don’t sleep, never tire, don’t age.”

“And money? How did you come by that?”

“My father had a large estate,” he said. “By forging his name, I was able to acquire his share. When his brother died, I got it all, liquidated the family assets, invested. It was a slow process, but I had more time than any man has ever had. My wealth has grown, but these things are not important. The thing I need to show you is in here.” He paused beside another tank, leaned toward the portal, looked inside. “You spent nearly a month inside one of these tanks,” he said. “The same fluid in which I grow my creations nurtured your wounded body. I do not cut and stitch dead flesh any more than my father did, but by studying his journal I have learned the art of creating, growing, and kindling the spark of life. It was lucky for you that you missed the rocks when you fell from the cliff.” He looked toward me now, and in his expression I discerned a hint of the terrible thing that lay within the tank beside us. “I entered the whirlpool and hauled you from the flood,” he said. “And then, seeing the remains of your rival dashed upon the rocks, I went back in.”

“Professor Moriarty?” I whispered, speaking the name of the evil that had been my obsession.

“Yes,” the creature said. “I read his name in the note you left for Watson, and although I knew that the battered carcass on the rocks was that of your enemy, I felt compelled to save him, too. There was a time when life meant nothing to me, when I killed indiscriminately to torment the one who tormented me, but that’s behind me now. I understand that life is a gift that must be created at every opportunity, protected at all costs, and rekindled whenever possible. You healed because you were still in one piece. Your rival, however—” He glanced again at the portal, frowned, then bent toward me. “Come.” He wrapped me in his hands. “I’ll show you.”

This time the transit from floor to portal seemed to take longer. My mind was racing, reverberating with dread for what I would see when I looked through that window, but I resisted the urge to turn away as the creature brought me level with the glass.

Inside, Moriarty’s remains floated in a bath of milky fluid, drifting in the slow spiral of cycling nutrients. He had but one eye, lidless and swollen, peering out of a broken face. At least, I assumed it was a face, though other than the eye there was little to identify it. The nose and lower jaw had both been ripped away, leaving wounds that would never close, hollows in which I saw the wet workings of throat and sinuses. The head itself was elongated, the sides evidently pushed out by a concussive blow to the rock. The impact should have killed him, and I suppose it had, but Adam had brought him back, revived him, returned the fires of life to the cracked and broken kindling of his flesh.

“I could not leave him,” the creature said, his voice sounding distant even though he spoke close to my ear. “I did terrible things when I was young, but I have since sworn to become a force of life and healing. So I nursed him even as I nursed you, but I cannot keep him. He needs to face judgment, and that is your domain, not mine. When you leave, you must take him with you.”

A truncated body bobbed beneath Moriarty’s ruined head. I saw a pair of arms, one ending below the elbow, the other little more than a knotted stump beneath the shoulder. The torso was no more complete, scarred and tapering to a flesh-wrapped spine. No hips. No legs.

“Take him with me?” I asked. “Back to London?”

“To face judgment,” he said.

“But how?”

“That’s up to you.”

“But can he be transported?”

“Yes. He has stabilized. Soon he can be removed from the tank, swaddled in gauze, carried like an infant, a little heavier, perhaps, but not much.”

Moriarty stared. I sensed he recognized me, perhaps even heard what the creature and I were saying.

I pushed away from the glass, making it clear I’d had enough.

He lowered me to the floor.

“I can’t do it.” I said.

He crouched before me, a father stooping before a child. “You would rather leave him here, in my care, knowing that I am bound by personal honour to keep him alive? Restore him if and when I can? Let him return to the world if and when he is able to walk into it on his own?”

“You would let that happen?”

“I would,” he said. “I must. It is the way I’ve chosen.” He leaned closer, confiding. “He needs to face a justice that I am incapable of providing. Perhaps, in your hands, he will find it.”

The swaddled mass screamed as Adam wrapped it in gauze, and though a dose of morphine temporarily stilled the cries, they resumed before the carriage left the castle gate. I thought of what Adam had said about justice, realizing, as the deformity wailed and sputtered on the seat beside me, that there was no need for either Moriarty or me to return to London.

The road followed the river, and when I was certain we were far enough downstream from Adam’s estate, I told the driver to stop. He was one of Adam’s long-armed monstrosities, wrapped in a cloak to mask his shape. I suspected it was the same servant that had confronted me in the library, though it gave no indication of knowing me. Nor did it seem the least curious about my intentions when I carried the wailing parcel to a cliff overlooking a wide, rapid stretch of the Aare.

I knew now why Adam had supplied the loaded pistol: considering my pain, it would have been a shame to waste any more morphine on Professor Moriarty.

The gunshot echoed through the canyon.

The thing stopped screaming. I picked it up and hurled it over the cliff, its gauze unravelled as it fell, streaming out, whipping in the wind, collapsing when it struck a rock. It bounced once, then vanished into the current. It resurfaced briefly a few hundred feet downstream, smaller than before, then it vanished for good amid the churning waves.

I returned to the carriage.

“So it’s done?” the servant said.

I offered no answer, but climbed back into the carriage and shut the door.

The carriage rocked, then continued down the road.

I would not return to London. My work there was finished. I would go elsewhere, write to my brother, have him send what I needed. Perhaps, in seclusion, I would find the same redemption that had eluded M Adam’s creator. Perhaps, if I lived long enough, I would do justice to the gift of a second chance.

* * * * *

The LAWRENCE C. CONNOLLY novel Veins was a finalist for the Black Quill and Hoffer awards as well as inspiring the audio CD Veins: The Soundtrack. His new supernatural thriller Vipers was released in 2010. In addition he has two short story collections available, Visions: Short Fantasy and SF and This Way to Egress.