Gaslight Arcanum: Uncanny Tales of Sherlock Holmes

The Greatest Mystery

by Paul Kane

My dear and faithful reader. It is only now that I am able to recount the truly shocking events of what I firmly believe to be my dearest friend and colleague Sherlock Holmes’ greatest ever mystery. Upon first reading these words, you may feel my claim is somewhat of an exaggeration. What about the case of the Baskerville Hound, you might ask, quite possibly his most famous adventure to date? What about his entanglements with the evil Professor Moriarty (the merest mention of which will later have great significance, I can assure you)? But I have faithfully chronicled the master detective’s cases over the years and I can categorically attest to the validity of my statement. I alone was witness to its eventual outcome and, once you have finished this offering, I feel certain that you too will agree about the choice of title. I can also promise that while I have been taken to task in the past for what Holmes called my embellishment of these accounts — the addition of, to quote the man himself, ‘color and … life’ (the latter an irony, as you will soon see) — there is not a word of this that is not the whole truth. Whether you believe me or not is, in the end, your choice — all I can do is report the facts of this most singular case as I experienced them, no matter how strange they might seem.

The matter in question began with a simple case — although you might recall the air of strangeness and tension against which it was set, in the months approaching the turn of the century. Indeed, these very events were thought by some to be interlinked, though you will soon realize that this was not in fact so. The real explanation goes beyond that, beyond anything you might have thought possible. But I am getting ahead of myself once more…. The case in hand was an apparently straightforward crime, yet as Holmes is often at great pains to teach me, things are seldom what they appear at first glance.

And so, to the details. A lady by the name of Miss Georgia Cartwright called upon us one afternoon in late September, begging that we pay a visit to her cousin Simon.

“In jail,” Holmes said, motioning for Miss Cartwright to sit down. When he noticed her look of confusion, he waved a hand and explained: “The faint marks on your dress and your arms, a distinctive pattern showing you have recently been pressed up against a set of iron bars…. Pray tell us of what your cousin is accused, Miss Cartwright?”

“I am sad to say Simon stands accused of … of … murdering his fiancée, and my best friend, Miss Judith Hatten,” she told us, gratefully accepting a seat as well as a handkerchief; the latter to dry her eyes. “But he couldn’t have … he simply could not.”

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…”

Though we were fresh to the scene of this incident — able to examine it before, as Holmes would say, Lestrade and his men could contaminate it — we found nothing amiss … save for the brutal murder of Mr. Thorndyke.

As you know, I have long been a student of Holmes and his methods, so it was with a heavy heart that I watched him pace the room, sniffing the air, taking out his glass to pay close scrutiny to a piece of carpet here, the edge of a table there, only for him to concede that — as she must have done — Mrs. Thorndyke had plunged the knife into her husband during the meal. Holmes pressed a gloved finger to his lips. “Ah, but it is the way it happened that is the most curious, Watson,” said he. “Note the way the plates are scattered on the table. The look of shock and surprise on Mr. Thorndyke’s face. This happened quickly. As if something unimaginable came over the woman. One moment they sat eating dinner together, the next…” His sentence trailed off.

I nodded. “But what could have come over her?”

“Once again, you are the physician, Watson. I would suggest that you examine the body of not only Mr. Thorndyke,” he encouraged, “but his wife as well. We shall also be needing access to the body of Miss Judith Hatten.” Holmes looked over at Lestrade as he said this.

“I beg your pardon? What has the one to do with the other?” the policeman asked.

“Oh, come now, Inspector. Surely you can see the connection here?” The man could not, but I could. Two people murdered by their partners, both surviving halves — though Mrs. Thorndyke did not survive for long, I grant you — claiming that they did not commit the crime, in spite of all evidence to the contrary.

Lestrade allowed us to examine the body of Miss Hatten anyway, along with the others. But even as Holmes watched my explorations from a distance down in the icy morgue I could offer him no new leads.

“The causes of death are accurate,” said I, “a head injury in the case of Miss Hatten and repeated stab wounds in the case of Mr. Thorndyke.”

Holmes looked past me to the grey bodies on the tables, breathing in deeply — something I would not readily advise in such a situation. “But what of Mrs. Thorndyke?”

I shook my head. “Nothing that I could see, at any rate. Perhaps an examination of her blood…”

However not even that afforded us an explanation; no abnormalities that would have accounted for sudden changes in personality. Nor did Holmes’ trip to the Hatten residence uncover a thing, largely because Judith’s father would not grant us permission to view the crime scene once he learned who had enlisted our help.

“No matter,” Holmes said as we climbed back into the cab, heading towards Baker Street once more. “After so long, I doubt whether it would have yielded anything of interest.”

While Holmes attempted to make some kind of sense of the incidents thus far — littering his room with everything from articles on insanity to reports alleging bodily possession by demons (“You cannot seriously be considering that?” I said to him when I discovered his notes, but he just waved me away with his hand), playing his violin into the small hours of the morning — more incidents occurred.

In Kentish Town an antiques dealer named Falconbridge used an ornamental sword to disembowel his housekeeper then turned the weapon on himself. At Westminster Hospital a middle-aged builder’s merchant called Robertson took it upon himself to secrete a hypodermic needle about his person and inject his elderly mother with an overdose of morphine … a mercy killing, you might assume, but the woman was actually recovering from her malaise and was expected to be discharged within a matter of days. Colleagues of mine who were present informed me that the son, in a state of confusion and remorse, ran away. His body was later found in the Thames. Finally, passengers on a train bound for Waterloo described hearing piercing screams, only to witness a woman backing out of a carriage covered in blood and holding a fire axe. According to the ticket inspector her hands were trembling, as she looked left and right, then she dropped the axe and fled, eventually flinging herself from the moving vehicle. Inside the carriage were found the dismembered bodies of her husband and their twelve year old daughter.

It was the latter, I fear, that had the most telling effect upon Holmes. As we stepped onto that train, Lestrade now very glad of any assistance, my friend wavered, almost turning back. But he forced himself to look upon those remains. And I swear to you now, that in all my years and service in Afghanistan I had never seen the likes of it before — nor would I care to again.

“I should have been able to prevent this,” Holmes said, under his breath, his gaze fixed upon the contents of that carriage.

“How?” I asked him, my own mouth dry as sandpaper.

“There is a pattern to these events… I simply cannot see it yet.”

When we returned to Baker Street that evening, silence prevailing in the cab along the way, Miss Cartwright was waiting for us. She said nothing as Holmes stepped into the room, but merely strode towards him and slapped his face; before departing without a word.

We discovered not long afterwards that Simon had committed suicide in his cell by swallowing his own tongue. Lestrade said that there was nothing that could have been done, but I knew Holmes disagreed.

I did not see him for some time after that. On the single occasion I did knock and enter his chambers, I found the room empty apart from the usual detritus of the case. However, on the table I spied the means by which he was administering his seven percent solution; a habit from which I never did manage to free him.

Holmes staggered from his bedroom then, unkempt and wearing a dressing gown. He looked drawn and pale, a ghost of his former self.

“Holmes, I really must—” but before I could get out another word, he flew at me, enraged. I thought for a moment he might attack me in a murderous rage, but instead he simply shouted:

“Get out! Get out! Get out!”

I did as instructed, retreating and allowing him to slam the door behind me. I heard a lock being drawn on the other side and considered it was for the best that I should leave him alone, despite my grave concern.

An equally concerned Lestrade contacted me several times over the course of those next few weeks, informing me of yet more murders — drownings, beatings, stranglings — as well as suicides, asking if Holmes would be continuing his investigations. I lied and told him that the great detective was looking into several quite promising leads.

In reality, I feared that he had finally met his match. It is a conviction that I still hold to this day.

When I heard Holmes leave 221b Baker Street, it was the middle of the night. He told neither Mrs. Hudson nor myself where he was going, but after his tirade I was not at all surprised. When Lestrade called at the house, protesting that he was no longer able to prevent the papers from reporting this insanity that seemed to have gripped London, I had to admit that Holmes was not present.

“Then where is he, Doctor? And why aren’t you with him?”

I said again that he was chasing a line of enquiry, but the Inspector’s words struck a nerve with me. It wasn’t the first time Holmes had retreated into himself, nor the first occasion he had vanished without warning — and Heaven knows he had justification this time — but Lestrade was right; I should be with him. I was deeply distressed about his condition, and if there was a connection between all of these bizarre events then I should be working with Holmes to uncover it.

I set out to look for my friend, searching all the places I could think he would go. Sadly I even tried some of the opium dens that he had been known to frequent from time to time. In Limehouse, I discovered that he had been spotted enjoying some of the more questionable vices it had to offer, but had departed some considerable time ago.

It was not until I had exhausted every single possibility that it struck me where I might find him. My years observing Holmes’ methods have left me with some degree of aptitude for deduction myself.

When I arrived at my destination, he was indeed present. Standing, staring out into the middle distance just as the ‘victims’, those left behind after the murders, were wont to do. He looked no better for his absence; worse in fact, than he had in his chambers. I approached cautiously, after my last encounter with him — not knowing what kind of reception I would receive.

“Ah, Watson,” said he in a quiet voice. “My faithful friend and companion… I knew that you would find me here eventually.” Holmes looked down at the grave by which he stood, the one containing the bodies of the family who had died on the Waterloo train. “I am so sorry for my behavior when last we saw each other. I was … not myself.” He gave a slight laugh, perhaps realizing the significance of his words, but there was no humour in it.

Not far away, I knew, were the final resting places of others who had perished during these past troubling weeks.

“What occurred was not your fault.”

He shook his head and turned to me. “I could not see it until now, but we have been facing my greatest enemy.”

“Not … the Professor,” I said, struggling to hide the alarm from my voice.

“I have seen Moriarty, Watson, I will not deny it. My own punishment, perhaps… But no … my efforts at the falls were entirely successful. He remains among the deceased. Although through this experience, I have discovered why the murderers — if one can refer to them as such — are so quick to throw away their lives. I know now what they see … afterwards.”

I frowned, conceding that I had no idea what he was talking about. If Moriarty had not returned from the grave — and the dark humour of my own musings was not lost on me, in light of where we were standing — then who exactly was it that we were up against? I ventured the question aloud.

“I’ve been a fool, Watson. It has been before my nose all along. Literally! The stench is so distinctive. But, you see, I’ve seen Him before as well, if only briefly. You recall the case of the Devil’s Foot, which you so expertly set down?”

Good Lord, I thought to myself, is Holmes making some kind of veiled reference? Surely we were not facing the Fallen One himself; such a thing would have been even more preposterous than Holmes’ theory about demonic possession. As it transpired, our foe was much more terrifying. I nodded, remembering the case well.

“It happened when I subjected us to the burning powder that was used to induce both madness and … death.”

“Are you saying a similar poison has been employed here to drive people to such acts?”

He shook his head. “No, no, Watson. The Radix pedis diaboli has nothing to do with this affair, save for the fact that the one we must stop was present during that investigation also.”

“I do not follow you.”

“I have never spoken about what I witnessed under the influence of that powder, nor have I asked you what you saw.”

“My dose appeared to be notably smaller than yours,” I told him, remembering how I shook Holmes out of his hallucinogenic trance.

“Indeed…” He looked again at the headstone before him, then cast his eye over the entire graveyard. “Consequently, I saw our enemy, Watson. A brief … suggestion, you might call it. But nevertheless it was Him, of that I am certain.” Was my friend speaking of prophecy now? “It was a state I have been attempting to recreate during my absence from Baker Street.”

“And were you successful in your endeavours?” asked I, when all I really wanted to do was voice my concern; the state Holmes was talking about almost cost him his sanity, if not his life.

“I was indeed. I saw that which I was seeking, and more besides. I finally know what I must do … actually what you must do, Watson.” I still wasn’t following his line of reasoning and I told him so. He placed a hand on my shoulder. “At this moment I have more need of your skills as a physician than a detective. Do you trust me, old friend?”

“Of course, Holmes.”

“Then I would ask you to visit your surgery, with the express intention of collecting the items we shall require for our task, and meet me back here tomorrow at sundown.”

“Task, Holmes?” said I, still puzzled.

“Yes.” He fixed me with a stare that I have never forgotten and then he said, more serious than I have ever heard him, “Watson, tomorrow evening I would ask that you kill me.”

The logistics of Holmes’ plan will soon become apparent, but you can appreciate my asking him to elaborate on his statement. However, he would not, merely indicating that the following night he would require me to end his life by stopping his heart.

“I simply refuse,” I told him.

“Then more innocent people will die before this is all over,” Holmes said to me. “The killer has a taste for this now. From what I can ascertain he is using more and more direct and personal methods. He is taking pleasure in the tactile aspect of ending lives. If you will not do this for me, Watson, then do it for the victims yet to be claimed.”

Reluctantly, I agreed, returning to my surgery to gather what I would require. The safest way I could think of to stop Holmes’ heart temporarily was by way of administering an injection; a lethal concoction of my own devising, for which I also had the antidote. Holmes had explained that he only required me to impede the beating of his heart muscle for a short amount of time. “Just long enough to lure our prey out into the open,” Holmes informed me.

Quite how ‘killing’ my friend would achieve this, I did not know, apart from the obvious parallel it had with friends and loved ones suddenly doing the same thing across our city. Did he wish to recreate the madness of extinguishing a life in such a way? If so, he could scarcely have chosen a more apt person to perform this action; Holmes has always been and will forever remain, my best friend…

The wait of a day passed slowly, as I contemplated what I was about to do. In a few hours I would achieve what every single one of Holmes’ adversaries had failed to do. Even Moriarty. I would murder the great detective, and he had asked me to do the very deed! The thought of it boggles the mind.

Nevertheless, at the appointed time, I found myself once more travelling back to that cemetery as another thick fog descended upon London. The sky was darkening and the overall effect chilled me to the bone. As I walked through that graveyard, knowing full well that the people contained therein could not harm me, I still found myself shivering. When Holmes stepped out from the depths of a bank of fog and tapped me on the shoulder, it was very nearly I who found my heart stopping that night.

“You gave me an awful fright, Holmes,” I told him.

“My dear Watson, please forgive me…” In spite of the circumstances, and by the light of the lamp he was holding, I detected the hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Did you bring the required items?”

I nodded, showing him my medical bag.

“Splendid, then we shall begin.” Holmes took me over to a flat slab of stone, a place for him to rest as I carried out his request. He placed the lamp beside him so that I could see.

“Holmes, are you quite sure about this…? I still do not understand why—”

He silenced me with a raised finger. “Please proceed. I know that I am in the most capable hands.”

Sighing, I took out a hypodermic and a vial, siphoning off a massive dose of my concoction. Holmes, for his part, rolled up his sleeve. I saw the cost of his experimentations; red welts on his arm, dotting the lines of his veins. I frowned, but said nothing, instead taking up his arm to give him the injection: quite possibly the last I might ever administer to him.

As the needle sank into his flesh, Holmes reached over and patted my hand gently. Neither of us said a thing as he shut his eyes and waited for the drug to take effect. I sat there and noted the look of complete peace on Holmes’ face; it was the first and only time I have seen him look so content.

I took his wrist and felt for a pulse. It was still there, but faint.

“I never got the chance to tell you this before, Holmes…” I whispered, still keeping hold of his wrist as the beats slowed. “But thank you. Thank you for everything…”

And, suddenly, the beating ended.

I bowed my head, choking back the wave of emotion I felt at seeing my companion as dead as those corpses I had examined after the murders. Then I felt it, a sudden jolt — so fierce I almost let go of Holmes’ wrist. I wonder now if I would have seen what followed had I done so, for I firmly believe it was the physical connection to Holmes, at the moment his spirit departed his body, that allowed me to bear witness to what transpired. Yes, that is correct — you did not read wrongly. I can finally unburden myself of the knowledge of what happened in those ensuing seconds. It is an unspoken memory I have carried with me now for so very long…

A shape began to coalesce beside the slab, indistinct at first and shimmering — but as I blinked, refocusing on it, a familiarity began to reveal itself. A head, then shoulders, arms, legs … it was a body, transparent but glowing white. Eventually it took its true form. It turned to look at me, and it was then that I saw the unmistakable visage of none other than Holmes himself. He mouthed something upon seeing me, but I could not hear him at that point and was too much in shock to reply anyway. I wondered whether Holmes had somehow infected me with his madness, for this must surely be what it felt like to experience insanity.

The fog parted, close by, and began swirling round, taking on a form itself. It was difficult to separate the darkness beyond our lamp and the glow of Holmes’ spirit from that which was bending the mist to its will. I soon realized my mistake, however, because again this was not a thing of our world. It was nebulous in appearance, mist-like though not of the mist enveloping us. The only reason I could see it at all was because of my physical connection to Holmes.

It too settled on a form eventually: tall and black, wearing what looked like robes but not from any material known to man; rather fashioned from the same miasma as the rest of it. Its hands, when it reached out, were in contrast white and thin, almost bone-like but lacking substance. A finger shot out from the robe, pointing at my companion’s shade.

And its voice, when it spoke, sounded like thousands of voices speaking at once in my mind. “Sherlock Holmes,” it stated simply. “I have come for you.”

All the times he had cheated Death, in particular that celebrated occasion at the Reichenbach Falls, and now I feared that it had sought Holmes out — all because I had ended his life. And Holmes was right, there was a distinctive smell; it was one I recognized all too readily from my time serving abroad, and my career as a doctor on these shores.

“No,” I heard my friend say then, in a voice that was his, but not his. “I have come for you.”

There was silence then, as if the creature in front of Holmes did not quite know how to reply. That silence was filled eventually by an explanation of sorts.

“It wasn’t quite enough for you, was it?” Holmes continued abruptly. “Taking lives like this. It wasn’t … satisfying.” He uttered the last word with all the contempt it deserved. “You have watched for so long as we have found new ways to kill one another. Watched and come for us when needed. All the while wondering what it might be like to actually kill, to tighten a cord until the last gasp of air emerged from a mouth, to plunge a knife through someone’s heart until it beat no longer, to hack a child to…” Holmes paused. “I saw your pattern, you see. This isn’t the first time you have slipped inside; you’ve worked your way through battlefields, have you not, choosing those who would not readily be missed. The poor, the destitute. I have seen them all… They told me what you have done. Yet that was not enough for you. The sweetest sensation, the longest and strongest high of all, comes from the murder of a loved one. To feel the connection severed at your hands. Your very hands!”

Listening to Holmes’ explanation, something I have done on many occasions at the conclusion of a case, everything fell into place. The reason why Miss Cartwright’s cousin, Simon, had done what he did — the reason those others did the same. It was a disturbing revelation to say the least.

“You dare to pass judgment on me?” came the voice that was a thousand voices, almost screeching the reply. It was filled with indignation that Holmes was even talking to it.

“When your actions result in…” Holmes’ spirit looked over again at where the family from the train had their plot. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

There was a snarl from the black mist-like shape, and it flung itself forward, just as Holmes had done back in Baker Street after wallowing in depression and indulging too much in his seven percent solution. The intent was different here, however, and we could both see it.

The shape raised both hands, in an effort to grab Holmes, to take him back with it, to drag him away and undo his very existence. I wished there was something I could do… But there was! I could bring Holmes back as he had instructed. We knew the identity of the killer, we just could not do anything about it — and never would be able to, I suspected.

It was time to administer the antidote and restart Holmes’ heart.

He looked sideways and could see what I was about to do. “Not yet, Watson,” he cried, then those hands grabbed him and Holmes was grappling with Death.

“You… have been … with me … every step of the way…” Holmes grunted as he struggled with his fearsome foe. “But even … you should know … there are consequences … to one’s actions…”

Something was happening behind me. I took my eyes off the spectral pair, to glance around. More shapes in the mist, breaking through in fact: one after the other. It did not take them as long as Holmes or Death to form; they had been waiting for this moment and they were eager to strike. Here were there the victims of Death’s atrocious crimes, Judith Hatten, Mr. Thorndyke, the husband and child murdered on the Waterloo Train, but also there were those who had been so tormented by their involuntary actions that they had taken their own lives — and, I had to wonder, given a helpful push by Death? So there followed Simon, Mrs. Thorndyke, the mother who’d turned that fire axe on her beloved husband and child, and more besides. I watched as those Holmes had spoken about, the earlier victims, both the murderers and the suicides gone unnoticed, unreported — the ones who had told Holmes their tales — all came marching through the mist. These were also joined by those who’d been lost during the last few weeks, while Holmes had been attempting to get to the bottom of the mystery: the ones Lestrade had not been able to keep from the morning editions. They marched through that graveyard as one, a spectral army converging on Death, all craving revenge.

The black figure — whose face was still unclear to me, and I would imagine to Holmes — turned towards them, letting go of my friend. The horde encircled Death, crowding in and raining down blows that I did not think would have any effect, but evidently did. They were backed by the power of those trapped between life and … and whatever was on the other side. It suddenly dawned on me then exactly why Holmes had wanted to wait a day. It was October 31st, All Hallows’ Eve — the time of year when these spirits would be at their most powerful.

“Now, Watson!” shouted Holmes, limping away from the scene. “Bring me back now!”

I snapped out of my daze, not wanting to let go of Holmes’ hand because I wished to witness the last of this, wanted to see Death’s end. But, of course, I should have known that Death is never, ever truly gone. How could it be? It is the other side to the coin of life. I saw the dark figure being smothered by the ghosts, then let go and watched as the vision faded. As I worked — injecting Holmes with the antidote, then pounding on his chest to get his heart beating again, I heard a faint voice. A voice made up of so many more. “We will meet again,” Death promised Holmes, “and not even your friend will be able to save you then.” The words filled me with dread.

I couldn’t see the ‘spirit Holmes’ any more, couldn’t see any evidence of the battle that had taken place, but that did not matter to me at that time. I beat on Holmes’ chest one final time, and he sat bolt upright, taking in a lungful of night air. He began to cough, though whether it was the result of coming back or the fog still surrounding us, I had no clue. I held on to him anyway, until he was strong enough to sit up on his own. “Rest a little, Holmes,” I warned him.

“I’m… I’m fine,” he told me. “Thank you, Watson.” And he clasped my arm.

I nevertheless had to half carry my friend through the graveyard and through the fog, into a more public place where we could hail a cab to return us to the relative safety, and sanity, of Baker Street.

Holmes spent the next few days recuperating, enjoying the ministrations of both myself and Mrs. Hudson. When Lestrade called on us once more, I was able to inform him of the conclusion of the case. “You should not see any more deaths like those,” I assured him. I could not promise him the madness of the population would not continue, as indeed it did in the final days of the 19th century until everyone was certain the world would not end. Of the murders committed by loved ones and subsequent suicides, there were no more. Due note had obviously been taken of the repercussions. As I already mentioned, the matter was put down to the singular time of the year and our calendar. I would not be pressed further on what had been amiss with those people, in spite of Lestrade demanding answers from both myself and later from Holmes. For one thing, I did not know where to start; for another I was positive he would have us both committed if we spoke of what we’d uncovered. Nor did Holmes and I talk about what had happened and what we had seen that day. To do so seemed somehow to invite the premature return of the culprit.

So you see, it is only now, with my friend passed on and myself nearing the end of my years, that I am committing this to paper. Even now, I doubt very much whether it shall see the light of day. Instead it will probably be dismissed, I fancy, as a work of fiction less credible even than those by Mr. Stoker or Mr. Verne. The final ramblings of an aged adventurer.

But I know the truth.

Holmes once spoke about his greatest foe without realizing it, long before he ever encountered the thing, during a case a long time ago. The Adventure of the Six Napoleons I believe it was, though my memory is waning, I must confess. He was in the mortuary then, not the graveyard, but he mused: “I am just contemplating the one mystery I cannot solve. Death itself.” How prophetic those words would turn out to be.

Because although he may have prevented more innocents from going the way of Judith Hatten and the others, spared future ‘murderers’ from the blame and guilt of something they had not done, Holmes had far from solved the mystery of exactly what Death was — nor what happens when we take our final breath.

The spectre had been right, of course. It had seen Holmes again, and to my everlasting regret I had not been able to save him. But that is a story for another time…

* * * * *

PAUL KANE is the award-winning author of the novels The Gemini Factor and Of Darkness and Light, plus the post-apocalyptic Robin Hood trilogy Arrowhead, Broken Arrow and Arrowland. His non-fiction books are The Hellraiser Films and Their Legacy and Voices in the Dark, and he is the co-editor of anthologies like Hellbound Hearts and Terror Tales. His work has been optioned for film and in 2008 his story ‘Dead Time’ was turned into an episode of the NBC/LionsGate TV series Fear Itself, adapted by Steve (30 Days of Night) Niles, directed by Darren (SAW II-IV) Lynn Bousman. Paul also scripted a film version of his story ‘The Opportunity’, which premiered at the Cannes Film Festival.