Gaslight Arcanum: Uncanny Tales of Sherlock Holmes

The Adventure of Lucifer’s Footprints

by Christopher Fowler

I must say from the outset that the shocking business of Lucifer’s footprints is something I cannot fully explain. And although there was a solution of sorts, it caused a rift between myself and my old friend that may never be fully healed. To this day, it chills me to the marrow to think of our foray into the dark netherworld that lies beyond the reach of rational science.

I have written elsewhere that although I recall the events laid out herein, I cannot place an exact date upon them, for I was not long married when I came to call upon Holmes once more.

I do remember the gutters of Baker Street running with melted ice and snow, the sky a sickly winter yellow above the chimney pots, which tempts me to place my visit on a Saturday in the late February of 1888. Should I venture to the vaults of the bank of Cox & Co., Charing Cross, and unearth my battered tin dispatch box, I would find among the many papers some notes which might be constructed into an account of what happened during our time in Devon. But I can still barely bring myself to believe what happened. And indeed, there is no logical explanation — I can only set down the facts as they occurred.

It began, as these things so often did, with a visitor to Holmes’ rooms.

“This is really most inconvenient,” said my friend when he heard the doorbell and peered down from his front window.

“You don’t know there is a caller for you,” I ventured, for it is true that my friend’s suppositions sometimes seemed to me a little glib.

“Mrs. Hudson does not take calls at this time,” he replied briskly. “The butcher’s boy is not due this morning, and the lady standing on the step is dressed in a style of finery that was at its height in London two years ago, which suggests she is up from the country — not a social call, for she would visit her milliner first, but a matter of urgent business.”

Moments later the door opened and Mrs. Hudson requested to speak with Holmes. “Sir, there is a lady for you who will not be put off,” she said. “I have asked her to wait—”

“Mr. Holmes, you are a consulting detective, are you not, and as such I should be able to call upon you as I would a doctor?” said the lady, coming into the room and removing her gloves.

“I have said as much myself, Miss—”

“Woodham, Lucy Woodham,” said the lady, as forthright as she was pretty.

“Please Madam, take a seat and pray tell me what I can do for you. This is Dr. Watson, a trusted friend and confidant. You may speak freely in front of him.”

I have travelled up from Devon today to see you because you came highly recommended to me by Miss A---, for whom you handled a most delicate matter,” she began. “My father is Major General Sir Henry Woodham.”

“A most valorous gentleman, Miss Woodham,” said Holmes, impressed. “A favorite of Her Majesty’s, I believe.”

“Indeed, sir, although you might not credit it to see him now, for he is a broken man.”

“Why so?”

“It began three months ago, when the footprints first appeared. And it has recently culminated in death and madness.”

I saw the sparkle in Holmes’ eyes and felt his excitement like electricity in the room. He knew the game was afoot. “Please be seated and tell me more, starting at the beginning,” he said.

“My father retired from the military world, but found life hard to adapt to at Belstowe Grange,” Miss Woodham explained. “He inherited the property from his grandfather, and upon his retirement we moved from Worcestershire to Devon, hoping to restore the house to its former glory. It wasn’t long before we heard the stories.”

“What stories?”

“You must understand that Belstowe Down is a close community, Mr. Holmes. It centres around the rows of villagers’ cottages, the parish church and the grange. It is quite ancient. There was supposed to have been a Roman encampment at the site. Storms often wash away the roads, keeping the village isolated and its residents prone to superstition. There is a legend that says when a terrible crime has been committed, the Devil sends his legions of the lost to take ghastly revenge upon the perpetrator.”

“And your villagers have recently had reason to believe this has once more come about.” Holmes tamped his pipe and sent aromatic blue clouds into the room. “Please describe the circumstances.”

“On Sunday afternoon the head groom and his stable boy had been returning the horses from exercise when a sudden storm arose. The sky blackened and the wind howled, bringing squalls of rain that hammered at the house and flooded the grounds. I and my father watched from inside the grange. When the tempest finally passed, the stable boy was discovered in a state of shock from which he has not recovered, and the groom was found lying in the middle of the lawn with his throat cut deep from ear to ear.” Miss Woodham paused, quite overcome with emotion, but gathered her wits and continued. “But that was not the worst of it.”

“What more could have happened?” I cried, feeling sorry for this fetching young lady who was clearly so distraught.

“I think we had better come directly to the grange with you to see for ourselves,” said Holmes.

A quick consultation of Bradshaw confirmed a train leaving within the hour. I suggested staying in the village inn, but Holmes felt it was wiser not to alert the local populace of our presence, and so took up Miss Woodham’s offer of rooms on her father’s estate.

The main body of the building at Belstowe Grange was Jacobean, wood-panelled, high-ceilinged and flagstone-floored, impossible to adequately heat and gloomy with shadows near the rafters. I imagined that Major General Sir Henry Woodham would be ‘the Very Model’ as Mr. Gilbert might say, ramrod-backed and stern of countenance. His illustrious military career spoke volumes, and yet the gentleman who greeted us was but a shade of his former self. His sallow skin hung loose upon his stooped bones, his eyes were dark with approaching shadows and he started at the slightest noise.

“I’m glad you could attend us, Mr. Holmes,” he said, shaking our hands with relief. “This is the most confounded business, and I am deuced if I know what the answer might be. I can only think that the villagers are right, and the Devil himself has cursed this place.”

“There is no time to be lost. Perhaps we should start by seeing your stable boy,” Holmes suggested. “Where is he now?”

“He is attended by a nurse upstairs,” said Miss Woodham, “but I fear you will discover little from him. The lad has not uttered a single word since witnessing the death of his master.”

Jacob, the stable boy, lay pinned by hard white linens in a small room at the back of the house. His pale face stared straight up, his eyes unmoving, his lips dry. Holmes sat beside him while I shone a light in the lad’s eyes to measure the contraction of his pupils. “He is in shock,” I told the nurse. “He must be regularly fed beef tea and kept warm. In time he will make a full recovery.”

Holmes was talking to the lad, speaking so quickly and softly that none of us could hear what he was saying. After a few minutes, the boy’s mouth suddenly opened and he began to whisper the same thing over and over, something that sounded like ‘Phantoms of the dead.’

“I fear we will get no more from him today,” said Holmes, rising sharply. He seemed hardly concerned for the boy’s health, and only wanted more information. “Come, Watson, we need to see the body of the groom. Perhaps Dr. Watson might be allowed to examine him?”

“He is lying upstairs in the Barley Mow, awaiting the verdict of the coroner,” Miss Woodham explained. “Mr. Charlton can take you to him in the brougham.”

A short, barrel-chested man with luxuriant grey mutton chop whiskers and the sun-darkened face of an outdoorsman appeared beside the Major General.

“Mr. Charlton can be trusted with anything you might have to say,” said Sir Henry. “Like myself, he was a cavalry officer at the Crimean Peninsula. I have known him for well over thirty years. Many in our village fought for their country, but few were actively engaged with the enemy like Charles and myself.”

We made our way through scowling drinkers and climbed the worn stairs in the local alehouse, where we found the body of Elias Peason, the head groom, covered with a winding sheet that had grown dark with his blood. I removed the cloth and studied the wound at his throat. “This cut was not made with a razor,” I exclaimed, “but with a sword. It is too wide and deep, and was performed in a single sweep.”

“Bravo, Watson,” Holmes exclaimed. “I knew I could rely upon your medical knowledge to help us out. But regard the look of sheer horror on his face. What did he see in the moment of his death?” He turned his attention to Mr. Charlton. “Were the pair of them together throughout the course of the storm?”

“I am given to understand so. They were seen from the road by a passing ostler who insists that the boy ran off at the height of the storm, leaving his master alone.”

“He saw the groom die?”

“He says the man uttered an unearthly scream and fell to the ground, and that he was entirely alone.”

“You know this witness? He is reliable?”

“He is known to partake of strong drink upon occasion.”

“Do you have any reason to suspect the lad?”

“Not at all. He had the greatest respect for his master. You will see for yourself, sir. There is fear in his face, but no cruelty in his heart. During my time in the army I have seen men kill and be killed in turn, and I would swear the boy is innocent.”

“Then whom do you suspect?”

“I think you had better see the rest of it, sir,” said Mr. Charlton, bringing us to the lawn where the body was found.

The half-acre of green behind the grange was still flooded from the storm. Around us the tops of tall beeches shook and whispered as if telling secrets. As we approached the spot where the groom had been killed, Holmes strode forward with a look of excitement on his face. Almost at once I saw what he saw, but could not make sense of it. “What is that?” I asked.

There appeared to be hundreds of indentations surrounding the space where the body had fallen. The earth was as churned and broken as if a flight of stallions had been driven across it.

“Did the groom release your horses before he was attacked?” asked Holmes.

“No sir, these prints were not here before,” said Mr. Charlton. “The horses were affrighted in the storm, but were still stabled behind locked doors.”

“The prints appear to start at the edge of the lawn and lift away on the far side,” called Holmes. “There are no other marks beyond them. It’s almost as if they came down from the sky to attack the groom.”

“Whatever could have left so many hoof prints?” I asked, but no answer came.

“We have found them here before, sir, regularly for the last three months, sometimes numbering in their hundreds, cutting across the fields in a single flight.”

“There are no herds of wild horses in the area?”

“Not to my knowledge, sir, not since the grazing lands were fenced.”

“When was the last time the prints appeared?” asked Holmes.

“Two weeks ago to the day, sir.”

“And before that?”

“The Saturday previous, just after dark.”

“That is suggestive,” Holmes replied, but I could not see how.

Later that evening we joined Sir Henry and his daughter in the candlelit retiring room after dinner. Usually by this stage Holmes had a rough idea of what he was up against, but this time he remained uncharacteristically silent on the cause.

“Did your groom have any enemies?” he asked, stroking his thin nose thoughtfully. It was the kind of elementary question he usually had no need of raising.

“None at all,” said Sir Henry, pouring brandies. “He was also a Crimean veteran. Military men form allegiances that last a lifetime.”

“Men without enemies are rarely found with their throats cut,” muttered Holmes, sinking into his armchair. “I think I should hear more about this local legend of yours.”

“Then you should speak to Reverend Horniman,” said Sir Henry. “I understand he is something of an expert on the subject.”

As we retired for bed, Miss Woodham stopped Holmes on the landing, anxious to speak to him beyond the hearing of Sir Henry.

“Mr. Holmes, I do believe the Devil is at work here,” she whispered. “My father is in fear of his life, and even Mr. Charlton — usually the most stoic of gentlemen — seems to have taken fright. Something terrible is haunting this house, and you are our last hope.”

“I will do what I can, Miss Woodham, I promise you that.” Holmes laid a reassuring hand on her arm, but would say no more.

The next morning dawned bare and bitter, but dry at least. We walked to the parish church, planning to have a word with the reverend after his first service.

“We are honoured to have encouraged the attention of London’s famous consulting detective,” said Rev. Horniman, welcoming us into the now emptied church, “but this is a terrible business.”

“I was hoping you could enlighten us about your village’s strange superstition,” said Holmes.

“I can show you something that has lately come to light concerning the legend, if that would help,” the Reverend offered. He returned from the sacristy bearing a parcel of oilskin cloth and carefully unwrapped it. “This was found buried in the parish grounds. Our gravedigger was turning sod in preparation for a new grave when his spade struck something hard.”

Inside the cloth was a glistening medal with an ornate clasp, being in the form of an oak leaf with an acorn at each extremity.

“But why would anyone bury such a thing?” I asked, looking up at Holmes. My companion seemed thunderstruck, and with barely another word set off in the direction of the village. It was all I could do to keep up with him.

“Really, Holmes,” I exclaimed, “I think you might have been a little more civil to the Reverend, he was only trying to help.”

“Civility has no importance when lives are at stake,” came the reply. “Come, my friend, we must head back to the Barley Mow.”

“Are we to view the corpse once more?” I ventured.

“No,” said Holmes, “we must speak with the farmers who drink there.”

We found a surly group of red-faced men in dirty smocks seated around the bar. Holmes had realized that the best way to win them over was to stand a round of drinks, and soon had them talking. I had assumed he would want to prise gossip from them about the stable boy or the head groom, or perhaps about Sir Henry and his treatment of his tenants, but instead Holmes wanted to know about the patterns of the weather.

“This land is dipped between three hills,” said one of the farmers. “The rain clouds come a-sweeping over the trees and the air gets trapped, see, so we get more’an our fair share of storms — they start by swirling around in the vale and can’t break back out.”

Holmes turned to nudge me. “It is as I suspected,” he said. “And can you stout fellows recall the most recent sequence of storms?”

We came away with a full record of recent bad weather attested to by the farmers. I could not see the relevance of this information, and as Holmes hurried us away in the direction of the grange I asked him what he hoped to find.

“I have a part of the puzzle but no more than that,” he admitted. “To reach the true solution I begin to wonder if I must think the unthinkable. Let us catch up with Sir Henry, for I fear there is another storm coming in that could place him in great danger.”

“A storm?” I cried. “I realize we are in the countryside where there is a greater risk in such meteorological events, but surely the Major General has nothing to fear from bad weather.”

“It is not the storm Sir Henry has to fear,” replied Holmes, “but what hides inside it. Tell me, Watson, do you believe Our Majesty when she says that God has chosen the English people to lead the world?”

“Well, I believe she was elected by God to lead our nation, and as she is the head of the most powerful empire on Earth I imagine that gives us great strength.”

“Yes, but is it truly divine right? What if our belief is wrong?”

“It is something I cannot think about, save for the fact that, as a doctor, I believe that all peoples of the earth are created equal, and are just in different stages of development.”

“Hm. Wise words, my friend, but there are some who would find your opinions heresy. Come, we must find Sir Henry before another crime is enacted.”

“Surely you cannot think he is the culprit!” I interrupted.

“No, Watson, but I think the ghosts of his past are unleashing an unstoppable evil upon this estate.”

We reached the hall just as a fresh storm broke overhead. Divesting ourselves of our wet topcoats, we went to find the Major General, but were halted by Miss Woodham.

“There you are,” she said. “My father was quite unseated by the rising storm and has gone out to await your arrival — did you not pass him? He was going to the top of the drive.”

Holmes uttered an epithet not suited for female ears and turned on his heel. I followed, running to keep pace. We crossed the torn-up lawn and searched right and left. Sir Henry was standing between the lines of darkening beeches, but it was hard for me to keep sight of him. The rising gale was tearing leaves and even branches across our path.

“Can you hear that?” called Holmes. “It sounds like voices.”

Indeed, I fancied I heard in the blast of wind that caught my ear the sound of crying voices, in great pain, terror and yes — anger. The sky was bruised in roiling shades of black and brown. “We must get Sir Henry to safety!” I shouted. “The stables are at our back.”

With a few long strides, Holmes had seized the old military man and pulled him away, but even as he did so I saw the hoof prints begin to appear. They were puckering the soil directly ahead of Sir Henry, thundering toward him. “This is madness!” I cried. “It’s as if the very gates of Hell are opening!”

The ground spat and tore all around us, clods of earth flying in every direction as the unseen hooves smashed and crushed the turf underfoot. There was a terrible slashing in the air, and Sir Henry flinched as if struck.

Reaching the stables, we tore open the doors and thrust Sir Henry inside. He offered no resistance, and collapsed on the hay bales as we battened down the entrance once more. It was then I saw that he had been cut — not deeply, as Holmes had been able to pull him back from harm, but enough to cause a fast flow of surface blood from his arm. I tore a horse blanket into strips and quickly staunched the bleeding.

As the wind and rain hammered the walls and clattered across the tin roof, thunder smashed so loudly that we could not hear each other speak. And so we remained for half an hour, until the worst of the tempest had passed and escaped to the hills once more.

“What devilry is this?” gasped Sir Henry. “Please, Mr. Holmes, go and make sure that my daughter is safe.”

Holmes went ahead, and I brought the Major General back to the house, but he was much depleted in energy. Upon arrival, I took the liberty of pouring him a brandy, and had one myself. Then I set about properly cleaning and dressing his wound.

Feeling that we were safer in assembly, the five of us, Holmes, myself, Miss Woodham, Sir Henry and Charles Charlton gathered in the great room and waited for the clouds to clear, but by now night had fallen. Upstairs, the nurse sat with the mute stable-boy, whose dark eyes continued to stare at the ceiling as if seeing beyond into the blackest reaches of space.

A servant passed through with tapers and lit the room, dispelling some of our fears. We gathered around the fireplace, feeling stronger but no less disturbed.

“Some thirty years ago we all fought the Russians,” said Sir Henry. “I believe the souls of our dead enemies have returned, to continue their war against us from beyond the grave.”

“I think not,” Holmes replied. “I can explain in part what is happening, but there is one more piece of the puzzle still to place.”

“Please, Mr. Holmes,” entreated Miss Woodham, “shed any light you can on these terrible visitations.” As she spoke, we heard the wind begin to rise once more, and a fresh squall of rain hit the leadlight windows.

“The storm has circled and is coming back once more,” said Mr. Charlton as the candles closest to the window guttered and blew out.

Holmes ignored the noise of the tempest and continued. “It is said that the forces of nature have the power to open rifts between our world and the next. Each time the Devil’s hoof prints have appeared, it has been during a time of natural disruption. This, after all, is the season of storms. As the possessor of one of the finest rational minds in the country, I cannot condone such thinking, you understand, but I appreciate how such beliefs arise. And then there was the matter of the little curate, Reverend Horniman, who set me thinking further.” Holmes dug into his jacket pocket and held up the gold medal. “Three months ago, at the very time these attacks first started, the Reverend’s gravedigger unearthed this medallion in his churchyard. In itself it is a rare enough piece, being awarded to those who fought in the Crimean theatre of war. But this particular one, with the ornate oak leaves on the cross-bar, is given only to those who had direct engagement with the enemy.”

“I have one in my possession,” said Sir Henry. “My head groom was also in my regiment, and possessed another.”

“Indeed, sir. I took the imposition of checking. You may be aware that there are several other men from your regiment living in this village.”

“After the war, many of the men who had fought together chose to resettle in their old villages, and many recruits came from Devon.”

“But I believe there is another medal like this, with the oak leaf cross bar, held by someone in this very house.” Holmes looked at Mr. Charlton.

“The one you found in the churchyard is mine,” said Mr. Charlton in shame.

“But why, man?” cried Sir Henry. “Why would you bury such an honour?”

“Because I could not bear to look at it,” said Mr. Charlton. “For what it represents, and the way it makes me feel. I hoped never to see it again. I determined to bury it soon after receiving it.” He turned to Holmes. “The other old soldiers in the village don’t know, sir. They are not a part of this.”

“A part of what?” coaxed Holmes.

“It was a secret held by only the three of us; and I am the most to blame for I carried out the order.”

“I think you had better tell us the truth now, Mr. Charlton,” said Holmes, with urgency in his voice as the storm continued to rise.

“It sounds as if the wind is trying to tear off the roof,” said Miss Woodham, glancing to the ceiling with apprehension.

“You must understand the difficulties we faced, sir,” continued Mr. Charlton, as more candles were snuffed out, and only the fluttering flames in the fireplace lit his face. “The British army was poorly prepared to fight the Russians, and even more ill-equipped for the attack on the Crimean Peninsular. From the shore where we arrived to the battlefield was a lengthy and difficult journey by mule. Lord Cardigan and Lord Lucan were fools too busy baiting one another to take proper care of their troops. Food supplies were dropped at the dock and left to rot because we had no way of getting them to our men.

“It was I who made the decision to requisition the horses for the cavalry officers. I thought I could take them for our comrades, and the food supplies would be delivered by mule through the mountains. I did not know that most of the mules had died, and that without them there was no way of the food getting through.”

“I knew our comrades needlessly died of starvation when they should have lived to fight the enemy,” said Sir Henry, shocked. “But I did not know of the part you played, Charles.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Believe me; had I known the results of my actions, I would not have acted thus.”

“Then these are not the spirits of avenging Russians, but of our own men!”

“Are there others in the village who are privy to this knowledge?” asked Holmes. “It is vital that I am in full possession of the facts.”

“No sir,” said Mr. Charlton, “for I made sure that the requisition copies were destroyed. The secret resides solely with me, and now the deed is being punished. The dead do, indeed, return. And the lives of all those who survived in place of their fallen comrades are at risk.”

“Pish,” said Holmes. “I do not believe in ghosts. You think the spirits of the fallen have been enticed by the Devil to take revenge against you? That they ride from Hades to take your lives?”

“Sir, I know this to be the case, and you have seen the hoof prints yourself, not made by horses but by the cloven-footed devils upon whom the soldiers of the dead must ride, for you see — they had no horses of their own.”

“It is madness to consider such superstitious nonsense,” said Holmes, but even as he spoke the wind howled down the chimney, blasting a great inferno of cinders out into the room, extinguishing the few remaining candles. Miss Woodham and myself stamped out the burning embers, but now the far window had blown in, as if the Devil himself was leaning against the walls. The full fury of the storm was attempting to enter the house.

“I must go out there and offer myself,” said Mr. Charlton wildly. “It was I who exposed my guilt before God by burying the medal, and now I must save Sir Henry while there is still time.”

“Listen to me, Mr. Charlton,” said Holmes, “I honestly believe you blame yourself for angering the dead, but it is a storm that caused the churning of the ground, and lightning that slashed the throat of your groom, nothing more.”

“That is not true, Holmes, and you know it!” I cried. “I saw the wound for myself.”

“You are a man of science, Watson, you cannot believe this too!”

Mr. Charlton ran to the door and flung it wide. We started after him, to pull him back into the safety of the room, but we were too late. He ran out onto the lawn and shouted at the sky, where a funnel of thick black cloud was spinning down towards the earth.

We felt the ground shake beneath us as great brown clods of mud were torn in a channel that roared toward Mr. Charlton like a platoon stampeding through a valley. The ‘Phantoms of the Dead’, as the stable boy had called them, had returned. We watched in horror as Mr. Charlton’s body was slowly lifted in the air, punched and twisted this way and that, as if unseen creatures were pushing at him. Blood flew about his face and neck, then his chest and arms, and finally his limbs were torn and stretched until they broke. We could hear each crack and cry from below, where we stood. When he was eventually released and fell, we saw the slashes across his stout form that had parted clothing and flesh all the way to the bone, cutting him to ribbons. Mr. Charlton was dead even before he had hit the ground.

A spectacular flash of lightning illuminated the scene. For a brief second I saw — or fancied I saw — the fiery horned devils who bore the dead on their backs, armed with unsheathed cavalry swords. And then they were gone, thundering back into the rolling clouds, born away by the tempestuous night.

“No more!” Holmes slammed the doors shut at his back, leaving the fallen man outside.

“No, Mr. Holmes, now there is only me, and I am an old man whose time has come,” said Sir Henry, as his daughter ran to his side.

“Father, the Devil has had his due,” exclaimed Miss Woodham. “Mr. Charlton has made right his terrible mistake.”

“Perhaps that is so,” said Sir Henry, “for there is no greater crime than when an officer has made his own men suffer.”

“You are wrong, sir,” said Holmes with some passion. “The greater crime is to engage the enemy in the sure belief that God is on your side.” He turned to me. “Come, Watson, I feel we should return to London tonight. There is nothing more to be done here.”

I had never seen my friend in a mood like this. He was angry. Not detached and analytical, but furious that he was being forced to face the impossible and consider it real. I felt sure that back in London he would bury his doubts once more in work and the syringe.

My last view of Sir Henry was as a sickly old man being comforted by his daughter, slumped in his armchair before the dying fire, disturbed by doubts that he might have spent his life believing in things that were not true.

Holmes and I returned to London, but during the long train journey home we did not speak of the case again, for fear that it might have awoken a chasm between us that no amount of reason could ever fill.

* * * * *

CHRISTOPHER FOWLER is the multi-award winning author of over thirty novels including the recently released Bryant and May Off the Rails, the eighth novel to feature Bryant and May. In addition to writing novels and short stories Christopher has written comedy and drama for BBC Radio One (including the Sherlock Holmes story The Lady Upstairs), has written articles and columns for a variety of publications and recently completed Celebrity for the stage.