Shadows over Baker Street

A Case of Royal Blood (1888) STEVEN-ELLIOT ALTMAN

It all began with a curious cable that found me one damp February evening as I lounged at my favored haunt, the Turkish baths at 33 Northumberland—one of the city’s more discreet and solicitous establishments. Instructing the valet to fetch my clothes, summon my coach, and remove a shilling from my coat for his service, I towelled off and reread the cable, striving to believe its content and origin. It read:

As we rumbled across the poorly tended stones toward Regent’s Park, in the flickering glow of the gaslight, I read the note yet again, wondering what could possibly require my attentions in relation to the notorious Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a man famed throughout Europe for his keen investigative prowess. I, a mere teacher and author of fiction, barely knew the man, save for the few occasions on which we’d suppered together with our mutual friend, John Watson, and the knowledge I shared with all Londoners regarding his casework as detailed in the Daily Press. Watson’s recent marriage and homeownership had demanded he take up his civil practice once more, and I wondered if Holmes was simply desirous of company—the cable a mere fabrication.

The coach ground to a halt before the illustrious lodging at 221B Baker Street and I leaped out with a wave to my man to await my return. I rang the bell and was admitted by Holmes’s housekeeper, who’d been informed of my probable arrival. She led me to the study, where I warmed my hands by the fire and took note of the man’s desk, cluttered to the point of overflow. The room held the stale scent of pipe smoke and the heavy drapes gave one the impression of a funeral parlor. On the table by an armchair, beneath a precariously balanced candle, was a bound edition of my latest novel, satisfyingly dog-eared and well thumbed—placed to flatter and conciliate, I suspected, but not distastefully so.

A light footstep announced the arrival of my host: gaunt of frame, hair tousled, adorned in a purple dressing gown and Persian bedroom slippers. The keen eyes and sharp features of his face were exactly as I’d recalled, though there was now a weariness about him I attributed to a lack of sleep. “Wells,” he exclaimed, in a tone at once familiar and matter-of-fact, “it’s quite good of you to come ’round so quickly at such a late hour.” He shook my hand firmly, then drew forth a case of Burns & Hill and offered one to me.

“What the devil is going on, Holmes?” I demanded, accepting the offer.

“Come, come, Wells,” he responded, striking a match and lighting both our cigars. “I know you well enough; you must be brimming with curiosity. And it may be the devil indeed. Please sit.”

He pulled his armchair to face mine and, with the firelight flickering across his brow, grinned a sardonic smile. “I see you’ve been hard at work on your next novel, and well paid on the last. You’ve also been to the baths on Northumberland within the hour.”

“Talking to my publisher, I assume? And employing your usual network of irregulars?”

“No,” he replied. “I simply took note of the fresh ink on your shirt cuff and the Glenfiddich on your breath. Not a poor man’s drink. I’ve only smelled that brand of talcum used in two places here in London: one a brothel in Camden—the sort you’d steer clear of—and the baths at 33 Northumberland. Your fingernails are impeccably clean.”

He retrieved two short glasses and a silver flask from the mantel and placed them on the table between us. I motioned my disinterest, as I’d already imbibed my fair share for that hour and expected soon to be in the company of my wife.

“I’m adequately impressed, Holmes. Now do please explain the contents of the cable before I burst into flame with anticipation.”

Holmes sat back and steepled his fingers. “As I’m sure you’re aware from Watson’s rather elaborate dramatizations of my casework, I do not accept cases which do not fit my own personal criteria. They must be of an unusual or fantastic circumstance not readily solvable by even the most experienced investigator, and the nature of the crime must fall within the higher order of darkness. Petty crimes are always tediously boring to solve, and invariably commence from poverty, greed, or unrequited love. I am only interested in purer evils, the ones that at first appear to defy logic or morality, crimes that trickle down from an arcane, yet quite mortal source, that I’ve yet to unmask.”

“I applaud your purpose, Holmes. And I presume that this business in Holland presents such a case?”

“Yes,” Holmes replied.

“And what is the crime?” I asked.

“Attempted murder on a member of the royal family, reportedly facilitated by a poltergeist.”

I sat forward in my chair and requested the drink I’d refused. Holmes poured a double scotch. “Poltergeist, you say? Do tell me you disbelieve in such things.”

He fixed me with a sobering stare. “Do you believe in such things, Wells?”

“No, I do not, though as you know well from our conversations, the study of occult sciences and myths constitutes the foundation for much of my fiction.”

“Ah!” Holmes exclaimed, the firelight dancing across his gray irises. “Exactly the point, my dear Wells, and the first on the long list of the reasons I wish to recruit you: your thorough knowledge on the subject matter and your simultaneous skepticism as to its validity. I do believe, from the details I’ve received thus far, that a murder has been attempted and a second attempt is imminent. All participants believe a haunting is involved—and that belief is enough to color every aspect of the aforementioned crime. Our job is to expose and undermine the falsehood of the claim and apprehend those responsible. Not to mention, the young Princess Wilhelmina is apparently a fan of yours. Will you come to Holland?”

“Are you quite sure that my knowledge will be of use?”

“What is a poltergeist, Wells?”

“As I’m sure you’re aware by picking up your Britannica, poltergeist is a German term, polter meaning ‘noise’ and geist meaning ‘ghost.’ A poltergeist is a disembodied spirit with malicious intent. However, your studied occultist would find this an appallingly meaningless and generic term, with little use for taxonomic purposes and of no use whatsoever in application. I myself could list over two dozen varieties of dark denizens specific to the mythos of Holland, but first I’d need to know a great deal more regarding the events witnessed. What did they see? Who saw it and when? Could be anything from a mischievous Kobold to a charnel-house Fetch. What events were recorded prior to—”

“Yes,” he said, cutting short my explanation. “I’m quite sure you’ll be of use. Pack enough for no less than a week. And be sure to bring rain gear; the weather in Holland makes London look positively balmy. We depart tomorrow morning from the port of Harwich for Rotterdam.”

And with that he rose, shook my hand vigorously, added, “Thank you, Herbert. I believe you shall find this a most inspirational journey,” and bid me good night.

Upon reentering my coach, I glanced back toward his window as someone began playing the violin with tremendous fervor—a somber work by Liszt. My coachman snapped the reins and we careened east toward Whitechapel. I had little time to contrive how I’d explain this sudden venture to my wife.

The captain of the Dutch steamship Dordrecht gave us free run of the vessel, assuring us his personal service. The pound sterling was then high against the gulden, but the discrepancy was of small consequence, for we were now guests of the Crown, and I had to prod Holmes to allow us to be treated as such. Holmes appeared to know little of earthly pleasures, and to be disinterested in the fineries that wealth could provide. I envied him his bourgeois contentment. The trip across the Channel was calm-weathered and uneventful, leaving us a good deal of time to lounge on deck and discuss a host of Dutch political intrigues.

“Holmes, I must admit that I’m not at all familiar with the current royal family, aside from King Willem and his—ahem—somewhat younger bride, Emma,” I admitted with some embarrassment. “Please do identify the players.”

“Understandable, Wells—it’s not until the world is at war that we look past our own doorstep. Her Majesty Emma of Waldek and Pyrmont, our gracious host, is indeed forty-one years the king’s junior, and she is in fact his second wife.”

“Ah yes, the first one was Sofia. Rumor had it he beat her,” I said.

“Never trust conjecture, my dear Wells, especially with the Dutch. They’re a proud and protective lot.” He motioned me to observe an elderly couple who had overheard my comment and now proceeded to cast angry glances our way.

“Point taken, do carry on,” I said.

“Queen Sofia bore Willem three sons: Prince Nicolaas, Prince Frederik, and Prince Alexander. Frederik died at age seven—meningitis. He was reportedly misdiagnosed by the court physician, and when Sofia requested a second opinion the king refused her. When the child died, Sofia left the king quite hastily and returned to her native Württemberg.”

“Bully for her,” I cheered. “But surely there must have been some reconciliation—there was a third child.”

“Indeed, Wells, there was: Alexander, one year later. Her Majesty was known to be rather ill-tempered, vengeful, and capricious, alienating the children from their father. It’s also a little-publicized fact that she was King Willem’s first cousin.”

“Scandalous,” I said, a trifle louder than necessary, to Holmes’s chagrin.

“The surviving princes gave Holland their fair share of scandal as well,” he continued, “before their mother died of an undiagnosed illness in the summer of seventy-seven. Then the king took up with young Emma, which deepened the rift between himself and his sons. Nicolaas took up residence in Paris and Alexander left for Switzerland. A year later, Emma gave birth to a daughter.”

“Pretty little Princess Wilhelmina. Must be eight or nine by now.”

“See that, Wells—you’re not as uninformed as you’ve let on.”

“And it is this young princess who is the subject of our attempted murder and alleged haunting.”

I rose and stood by the ship’s railing, rows of windmills now apparent in the distance like blackened pinwheels lined along the shore. I recalled from my grammar-school lessons that over half the country lay curiously below sea level; the Dutch engineers having masterminded the colossal system of canals, dikes, and mills to bleed the excess water from the pilfered soil and raise the sunken earth. Now they waged constant war to keep the sea from reclaiming the country.

“All right, Holmes, I’ll take the bait and surmise that it’s one of the princes who has promulgated this fictitious haunting, the obvious motives being jealousy and revenge.”

“And you’d be quite wrong, my dear Wells.” Holmes joined me at the railing. “At least in the choice of culprit. Both the princes are already dead—Nicolaas in a duel over a woman and Alexander of typhoid fever.”

Arriving in Holland was like stepping backward in time some ten years, both in the fashion and the overall lack of facilities. Of Dutch culture I knew little, save they were known to breed the shrewdest businessmen and they purchased a great deal of English literature at bulk discount. Though Holmes spoke a fair amount of Dutch, it became clear that the majority of locals were quite fluent in the Queen’s English and, unlike the French, were willing to exercise this facility in our presence.

A first-rate coach with an armed escort of five men awaited us at the docks. Holmes was immediately recognized and greeted by a giant of a man, nearly seven feet tall and nineteen stone, called Jan Gent, with a short beard and a short line of patience. Although Captain Gent was the very pinnacle of military courtesy, it was clear by his tone and manner that he was distressed. “Welcome to the Nederlands. Your presence is immediately requested at the palace. Please come this way,” (my approximation of his full greeting to Holmes). Our luggage transferred, we clambered into the coach and were away from the port in minutes with the soldiers seated at their stations above. Passersby stopped and stood agape in wonderment; I deduced that soldiers bearing rifles were not usually seen in the thoroughfare.

“Captain, is the general public aware that the princess has been threatened?” Holmes inquired of Gent.

“We have done our best to keep the information close,” he replied in his coarse English. “However, I must assume there are rumors. Over half a dozen servants have quit the employ of the palace since this began.”

Holmes nodded. “I’ll need a list of their names and particulars.”

“Of course. Do you wish them all brought in for questioning?”

“Bit premature for that,” Holmes said. “But I’ll keep that possibility in mind.”

Holmes directed my attention to several key landmarks as the pungent wharf odor and rough cobblestones of Rotterdam quickly transformed into the pristine and well-manicured architecture of Den Haag, or The Hague, as we Englishmen call it. Noordeinde Palace, current home to the royal family, appeared on the terminus of a beautiful length of road, and rivaled the monumental splendor of any British royal’s accommodations. Huge arches of marble, fashioned in the style of the Romans, served to support the structure, while shielding the men and women who scurried below them from a cluster of gray-black clouds looming threateningly above.

The coach ground to a halt at the front gate, and as the good captain unlatched the door for Holmes, a young girl of perhaps twelve broke away from the shadows and dashed toward us, a bundle of something outstretched in one small hand. In an instant our guards cocked their rifles, ready to discharge, and the captain drew his saber and held its blade edge threateningly close to the child’s throat. Dropping the bundle, the child burst into tears and lamentation. Holmes knelt, and retrieved a bouquet of tulips wrapped in linen. Once the guns were down, the saber sheathed, and the apologies made, the child was led away.

“Certainly on edge,” Holmes whispered as Gent brought us up through the gates. At each twist and turn through the building, guards snapped to attention at our passing, their eyes fierce and weary from what Holmes surmised to be a lack of sleep, admitting he was well aware of the symptoms.

Our quarters were two adjoining rooms, the splendor and finery of which you can well imagine. We freshened ourselves and prepared for our audience with the queen. Gent reappeared soon after to convey us through the royal hall to the tearoom—a plush chamber unlike any other I’d spied as we passed, with fine European silk carpets, bookcases filled with well-worn volumes, a fireplace, crystal chandelier, and several comfortable chairs and settees. While we waited, the captain posting additional guards at each end of the hallway, Holmes and I silently observed the room.

“Quite the atmosphere for a haunting, eh, Holmes?”

“Indeed,” came a soft, commanding voice from behind us. We turned to face H.M. Emma of Waldek-Pyrmont, a raven-haired beauty of some thirty years, with rose cheeks and sensitive green eyes, adorned in a timeless gown that bespoke great wealth. She seemed to glide, not walk, as she came to stand before us.

“Forgive us if we do not bend our knees, Your Majesty,” Holmes said respectfully.

“No apologies,” she responded graciously, apparently pleased by the presence of Holmes. “You are subjects of an English queen. And now our honored guests.”

“Dankuwel.” Holmes kissed her hand. “Wij zijn hoogst vereerd.”

“U bent meer dan welkom, Mr. Holmes,” the queen replied. “Uw Nederlandsch es uitstekend.” Then, seamlessly switching to English, she added, “But do let us include your countryman, Mr. Wells. Sir, you are also quite welcome. And as you’ll soon see, my daughter is a tremendous admirer of your tale of The Chronic Argonaut. And as to our haunted atmosphere, I quite agree. Please sit.”

Holmes and I sat in opposing chairs. The queen stepped before the fireplace, leaving her back to us, as if the story she was about to relate had offered her a sudden chill.

“It was in this very room, gentlemen, that my daughter, Mina, was attacked. It was just past nightfall and she sat in the exact chair you’ve selected, Mr. Wells, reading alone by candlelight. The door was locked from the inside.”

Holmes nodded to himself, his gaze sweeping to survey the door.

“A noise caught her attention, and she looked up. She was no longer by herself. There was—the girl.”

“The girl?” I questioned, my interest piqued by the emphasis she placed on the phrase.

“Yes, Mr. Wells, that’s how we refer to this invading, and most assuredly malicious, intruder.”

“So I take it this girl has been sighted on more than one occasion?” Holmes asked.

The queen turned back to us, her face drained now of its color. “Seven sightings to date since the attack.”

“Hence the pervading suspiciousness of your guardsmen and a rather overzealous incident we witnessed at your gate involving a young girl,” Holmes noted.

“Have you seen the girl yourself?” I inquired.

She nodded, with evident trepidation. “Once, upon awaking in my bedchamber.”

“Will you describe her for us, please?”

The queen began to wring her hands. “Her appearance is that of a dark-haired young woman of perhaps sixteen years. Her skin is a bleached white, her eyes dark. She is gowned in white linen and she moves with unnatural grace. She . . .”

“Please, spare no detail,” Holmes directed at her pause. “I assure you there’s no cause to hold back anything, be it for reasons of disbelief or of discretion.”

The queen nodded and said, “In all honesty, she bears a striking resemblance to Mina herself . . .” then paused again.

Holmes signaled me to continue. “Please, Your Majesty, do go on,” I said.

The queen took a deep breath. “Mina quite innocently asked for her name and the girl refused to answer, simply wetting her lips and whispering Mina’s name back to her. Somehow Mina assumed she was in danger and began crying out, hurling books at the girl and racing about the room to keep her distance. Captain Gent heard Mina’s screams and broke the door in . . .”

“Carry on, Your Majesty. What did the captain see upon entering?”

“He found Mina unconscious, with bloodied marks about her throat and upon her nightgown,” she said bravely.

Holmes and I rose and went to the door. He examined the slot where the bolt would secure the frame. “This door has been forced, by several kicks, I assume. See there, the large heel indentations in the wood.”

My attention had been drawn elsewhere, to a singular stain—a handprint, visible only from a particular angle because of the near-matching color and texture of the wood, located about chest level upon the outside surface of the door. “Look at this, Holmes,” I said.

Holmes drew his magnifying lens as the queen came quickly to observe our findings. “It is most certainly blood,” he said.

“Seems as if this bloodied print was created upon arrival, not departure,” I said.

“Please place your hand upon the door for us to examine, Your Majesty,” Holmes requested, and she placed her own delicate hand near to the print.

Holmes lowered his lens. “It seems the size of a young girl’s hand. Certainly not made from the giant paw of your man Gent.”

“Could it be Mina’s print,” I suggested, “made after the attack?”

“But she was unconscious when Gent carried her from the room,” the queen said.

“How tall is Mina?” Holmes inquired.

“Barely one meter.”

“Just over three feet, not tall enough to have made this print. The uniformity of the blood mark clearly suggests a forward thrust made by a girl no taller than five foot two inches and no less than four foot nine inches.”

“Most curious,” I said. Then, turning to the queen, I asked, “Where did the blood on Mina come from? What was the wound?”

The queen looked to us with confusion. “There was no wound upon Mina that I found, though her neck was badly bruised. I bathed her myself.”

“Well, someone was bleeding from somewhere,” Holmes surmised. “Any mythos surrounding the woundless extraction of blood, Wells?”

“None I’m familiar with,” I replied. “Save for Nachzerer, the German equivalent of the Romanian vampire. But there would be exit wounds, bite marks of some sort, as the legend goes.”

“Right,” Holmes agreed. He addressed the queen again. “You say you examined your daughter quite thoroughly and found no such wounds?”

“None, Mr. Holmes, I assure you.”

“Forgive me a delicate question, Your Majesty. Has your daughter begun menstrueren?”

“Nee, Mr. Holmes. Nacht neet.”

Holmes made a keening noise under his breath, then said, “We must assume that the bloodprint here and that which was found upon the princess resulted from wounds unknown, prior to the attack. May I request now, Your Majesty, an interview with your daughter?”

“Certainly, I shall take you to her,” she replied.

We then trailed down the corridor, preceded by guards, to the princess’s rooms. The queen entered alone, leaving us to wait outside as the guards took up their posts. I seized the moment to ask Holmes, “Do you suspect Captain Gent of some treachery? He was certainly willing to strike down that girl with the tulips.”

“True,” Holmes replied, “but he stayed his hand.”

“Perhaps due to our presence?”

“An interesting line of thought, Wells, and he was handily present on both occasions; however, I do find him lacking in motivation. If he meant the princess even the slightest harm, this keen mother would sense it. No, my observation of him reveals he is simply a man of action, fiercely loyal though a bit hot-tempered. An honest man.”

I nodded my compliance.

“Look to draw the princess out on any details you feel appropriate, won’t you, Wells? Proceed as if trying to prove that this is a true haunting.”

“Done,” I replied. “I shall play the believer.”

Her Majesty’s voice from within bade us enter.

The princess’s bedchamber was every child’s dream, fitted out with every plaything imaginable, each in its prescribed cubbyhole. The princess herself was propped up on no fewer than half a dozen pillows on a four-poster bed, draped with sheer linen, enjoying her supper on a silver tray. The child positively beamed as we were introduced, kicking her covers away and alighting at the foot of her bed to greet us.

“My daughter, Wilhelmina,” the proud mother presented.

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Holmes and Mr. Wells,” Mina offered in a voice that should have belonged to a girl twice her age. “Oh, this is a joyous day. I do proclaim, Mother, that I am cured this very moment!”

“Now, Mina,” the queen said. “The doctors have demanded you keep to your bed for at least three more days.”

“Yes, Mother,” the princess acquiesced. Then she turned and dug through a pile of books beneath her sheets and raised a familiar volume. “Look, Mr. Wells, I have The Chronic Argonaut right here with me.”

“I am honored, Your Highness,” I replied.

“We must hear of the danger that befell you,” said Holmes, bringing us back to our mission at hand. “Of the girl who tried to hurt you.”

Mina offered no resistance, or trace of fear, in recounting the attack, her story identical to her mother’s, a result, no doubt, of the fact that the queen had related it with a meticulous accuracy.

“Did you notice any blood on the hands of the girl?” I asked when she concluded.

“No,” she replied.

“Any peculiar smells in the air?”

She considered the question a moment, then answered. “Yes, I believe I did smell something strange—it made me look up from my book. She smelled like pine trees. Like the forest.”

“How unusual,” I replied. “And what was it about her that first made you realize that you were in danger?”

Again she carefully considered before revealing, “It was how she whispered my name. It was not a regular-sounding voice.”

“How so?”

“It was angry, and not at all hers,” Mina answered.

“And pray tell me, what had you been reading before she appeared?”

The child hesitated, almost imperceptibly. “It was a book of fairy tales,” she replied in a softer voice, “by Hans Christian Andersen.”

“Thank you, Your Highness. We’ll leave you to your supper now,” Holmes said, concluding our interview.

“But wait, I have something for you both, a gift,” she said. “Mother, will you please bring me my jewelry box?”

The queen went to a bureau and did as requested, placing the box upon Mina’s tray. The child rummaged through the box, producing a small pouch from which she removed two sparkling prizes. “Here they are!” she announced.

Upon seeing the twin silver rings, the queen chastised her daughter in Dutch: “Mina, dat zijn ringen van je grootmoeders erfgoed!” (“The rings were gifts from her grandmother,” Holmes translated in my ear.)

“Can I not do with them as I please, Mother?”

The queen deferred to the princess, whether from pride in our presence or inability to deny her child, we shall not venture to guess. Holmes would have spoken up to refuse the gifts had I not grasped his shirt cuff at that precise moment.

“We’d be honored,” I said, extending my hand to receive both rings and passing one to Holmes. I slid the beautiful gem on my right ring finger and admired its radiance. Holmes slid his on with mock gratitude.

“They were blessed by His Holiness, Pope Gregory, in Rome, weren’t they, Mother?”

The queen nodded, and Mina raised her tiny frame up on her knees and whispered in my ear.

“I shall treasure it always,” I pronounced before the room, my hand on my heart, as we left the young princess to her books.

In the hallway, the queen offered, “As you can see, the child has a flair for the dramatic, which she has inherited from her father.”

Missing no opportunity, Holmes responded, “Might I inquire, Your Majesty, as to the whereabouts of King Willem?”

“The king is on the grounds at present, Mr. Holmes. If you like, I shall petition him to grant you an audience. Though I warn you, he shares not my dire concern for these events, dismissing any talk of the supernatural entirely.”

“Would you describe your husband’s current relationship with your daughter?” Holmes asked.

“Adoration from a distance,” the queen answered after careful consideration. She called for a lady-in-waiting and gave her instructions in Dutch, then turned back to Holmes. “I’ve sent word to my husband of your request, though it may be some time before we receive his reply.”

Holmes wasted no time. “Thank you, Your Majesty. May we now speak with the other members of the household who have observed the apparition?”

One by one, guardsmen, handmaids, valets, and kitchen staff were summoned before us and we conducted our interviews in her presence—only to find that the queen recollected events far better than those who’d experienced them firsthand, that she remembered details that they had forgotten with astoundingly vivid accuracy—who had seen what and when, every creaking floor plank and flickering light. It was evidence of a diligence that only a mother truly in fear for her child’s safety could produce.

We dined with the queen in splendor, the details of which I shall not render, though suffice to say it was one of the best meals of my life. Afterward, we were granted an audience with the king in his private office.

King Willem III, a gentleman in his early seventies, was tall, like the majority of his subjects, balding slightly, with a white tuft of beard, an aquiline nose, and ruddy cheeks. His eyes possessed a disarming quality and his manner bespoke an impatience with nonsense. It was difficult to match him with the young queen—although it has been my observation that these things tend to work differently with royalty. He complimented Holmes on his high reputation amongst the European law enforcement communities, for which praise Holmes thanked him.

“Mr. Holmes, I am a tired man,” he professed. “I’ve outlived one wife and three sons. It is only of late that I’ve brought the nation into some semblance of economic balance. I’m looking forward to a time, hopefully near at hand, when I can sit by the shoreside and fish. Her Majesty and the princess have been my second chance in life, and I mean to keep them protected.”

“We are your servants on that mission,” Holmes affirmed.

“Much to my appreciation,” the king replied. “There is some dark intent running under my roof, and I mean to expunge it. Therefore, fire off your questions.”

“Are there political enemies of your royal house that we should suspect?”

“None, sir,” the king replied. “At present the Nederlands holds no open disputes.”

“What about personal enemies, Your Majesty?”

The king considered long and hard, then said, “This house was once divided against itself, I sadly admit. My late wife, Sofia, poisoned my sons against me; the announcement of Princess Mina’s birth was not received well by either of them. However, this feud was settled when Prince Alexander passed away.”

“He was head of the Freemasons for a time, was he not?” asked Holmes.

“That is correct, though with them, as in most diversions my sons engaged in, the time was short before there was a parting of the ways. In that case in particular, the way was parted quicker than most. Alexander was too passionate and quick-tempered for the Masons.”

At the mention of the Freemasons I wanted desperately to inquire further, their sometime involvement with unnatural arts demanding the very attention I was recruited for. But Holmes’s quick signal stayed my voice.

“Dankuwel, zijne Majesteit,” Holmes concluded, inclining his head in respect. “We shall leave you to govern your country.”

It had been a long day, full of strange tales and foreign sights. When we returned to our rooms, I sat on the edge of my bed and observed my tired reflection in the ornate mirror. Holmes was still bristling with energy; I wondered what sorcery he employed that kept him so finely tuned.

“Don’t prepare to retire just yet, my dear Wells; I’ve one more task for you before this day’s out.”

I sighed. “Right, Holmes, ever at your service.”

“I’d like you to pop ’round and offer our young princess a bedtime story.”

“You’re joking. It would be highly improper to do so without royal permission.”

“Nevertheless, I’m quite serious,” Holmes replied. “And do give her a choice—one tame story and one dreadful.”

“I’m sure that I don’t see the point.”

“At the very least you’ll gain her favor, Wells. She will be queen someday.”

I looked at him solemnly, trying to gauge his true intent. “And you’ll be off—”

“Attending to other things. By the way, what was it the princess whispered to you after presenting us with these?” he asked, displaying the remarkable brilliant on his finger.

“She told me that they should protect us from the devil.” Holmes arched an eyebrow. “You don’t suppose this whole business is merely a child’s method of drawing us here, do you?”

Holmes leaned his thin frame against the doorway and considered. “Wells, this whole family is trying to tell us something, not just the princess,” he said. “But they are not sure what it is that they’re trying to tell. It’s something they all intuit—the king with his guilty conscience, the queen with her suspicions, and the princess with her gifts to protect us. The entire household is gripped by chimera—it’s an uncanny display of transcendent cognition.” As I digested his words, he straightened and added, “Now do go tell the princess a story. We’ll meet back here by ten bells.”

I watched Holmes slink off, so silent and deft that the guards down the hall took no notice. I approached them moments later and asked to be escorted to the princess’s room, which to my surprise they did without hesitation. The princess seemed delighted to see me.

“I have a few stories I’m concocting, Your Highness,” I said, as if confiding a trusted secret. “One regards a fantastic journey by men shot out of a cannon to land on the moon; the other concerns a mad scientist who transforms animals into half-human creatures.”

“Do tell me about the mad scientist if you please, Mr. Wells,” she eagerly responded.

I returned to our rooms to find Holmes lying, fully dressed, on his bed, fingers clasped behind his head, awaiting my return. “Which did she choose?” he asked, rather smugly.

“The most terrifying story I’ve ever dreamed up,” I told him. “Nearly frightened myself.”

“Not surprising,” Holmes replied, “considering what she’s been reading.” Sitting up, he recited to me his past hour.

“Two things bothered me regarding Princess Mina. One: The fact that she had supposedly locked herself within the tearoom to read—why do that unless you’re reading something that you fear might be objectionable? Two: She hesitated briefly when you asked what she’d been reading prior to the attack.”

“Her mother was present,” I offered.

“Indeed,” Holmes replied. “So I examined the contents of the bookshelves at some length, finding nothing queer, then sat in the very chair and allowed myself to observe. There I saw it—a length of molding, set forward at unequal length to the opposing wall, which quickly revealed a hidden shelf.”

Buttoning on my nightshirt, I demanded, “The contents, man, if you please.”

Lowering his voice, he said, “Have you ever heard of an ancient text called the Necronomicon?”

“Holmes, do say you’re joking,” I whispered. “The book’s fictitious—a rumored work. The title translates from the Greek as ‘Book Concerning the Dead.’ ”

Holmes nodded gravely. “Yes, Wells, though its content suggests even more arcane purposes. A compendium of rituals pertaining to the manifestation of demons. Look for yourself.”

From his travel case he drew forth and handed over a dark ledger-sized volume that was bound in uncured leather and bore a musty odor. I opened to a random page and beheld a nonsensical incantation; scrawled in tedious longhand and accompanied by a cryptic diagram upon the yellowed parchment. I wanted to denounce its authenticity at once; however, the peculiarity of the thing in my hands prevented me from voicing my doubt.

“Holmes, it is preposterous to think that the princess—”

“Calm yourself, man,” Holmes said, and I lowered my voice. “I believe that she merely discovered the book, which I suspect belonged to her half brother Alexander. There were other books cached there; including Von Junzt’s despicable Nameless Cults and certain texts possessed only by high-order Freemasons.”

“Then she’s only guilty of hiding it again.” I sighed, quite relieved.

“Yes, Wells—though I pray her innocent young mind cannot grasp the dark implications of whatever she’s read so far. But the fact remains—the book is here, and that raises the stakes considerably, in my estimation. I found also a collection of correspondence from a woman named Elisabeth Cookson, who was illicitly involved with one if not both of the princes, and quite possibly with the king himself.”

“Do you have those letters with you as well?”

“No, I replaced them. And in any event, they were penned in Dutch. She’ll be the subject of tomorrow’s delicate inquiry.” At this, Holmes outstretched his hand to retrieve the book and I handed it back, somewhat disturbed by the intensity he displayed.

“Now sleep, Herbert. I’m on tonight’s ghost watch.”

“Holmes, does nothing tire you?” I asked, dazzled by his vigor.

Holmes got up and moved for the door, answering, “Not while such devilry may be afoot.” Extinguishing the room’s single candle, he left me to my troubled slumber.

Owing perhaps in equal parts to my natural wanderings, the horrific tale I’d offered the princess, the eldritch atmosphere surrounding the palace, and the profane sickness contained within the pages of that evil book, I fell prey to the most elaborate nightmare.

It began with a lone meteorite that came streaking earthward from the outer cosmos—crash-landing in some barren, uninhabited place, displacing tons of sand and gravel for miles about. It was nowhere on earth that I could readily identify; though I shuddered to think what would happen were such a rock to fall upon an inhabited city like our London. As I moved closer, I saw bits of debris crumbling away to reveal the thing’s true nature—not a meteor at all, but a cylindrical canister of sorts, some thirty yards in length, composed of a metal I could not distinguish and a color that defied comparison.

I was both rapt and unnerved when the circular top of the cylinder began to rotate and I realized there was life aboard the thing that had fallen from the stars! I floated there, transfixed, dreading what damaged thing might emerge—then willed myself awake to no avail as the first grisly tentacle came slithering from the wreckage. Then, to my horror, it was succeeded by several more flailing appendages—their number difficult to gauge because of their lashing, billowing movements—each terminating in something roughly akin to eyes. Then came a grayish rounded bulk of enormous size, rising slowly and painfully out of the cylinder. The Dark Thing was gruesome and certainly not of this earth.

I was repeatedly startled as dozens more of these cylinders rocketed down in like manner, and soon there was assembled no less than a battalion of the loathsome creatures. As I observed them in their makeshift settlement, I became aware that their alien intelligence and ability far exceeded that of mankind. These Dark Things had language I could not decipher, composed of high-pitched wailing, each utterance giving rise to primal fear within me.

Time flashed by me in terrible increments and I came to realize, quite thankfully, that this vision was not of earth’s future, but of its distant past, as I observed the creatures colonizing and taming the primordial wilderness that surrounded them.

Life on Earth had not yet developed past rudimentary multicelled organisms and early vegetations, but the Dark Things utilized techniques I could not fathom to induce and persuade this indigenous life to evolve as they required. From the oceans they raised and fused together great protoplasmic globules, and from the newly risen tree life they incubated pulpy, bulbous bipedal creatures, experimenting upon each by molding their tissues into all sorts of temporary organs.

Bred as slaves, these mindless elementals worked tirelessly by night and were penned like cattle during daylight, wholly mistreated and controlled by some sort of telepathic bond to their masters. The Dark Things used these slaves, engineered with limbs more suitable than their own, capable of hauling and manipulating tremendous weights, to build their city and perform all manner of tasks. It brought to mind the impossible pyramids of the Egyptians, though their scale was paltry when compared to the mammoth spires of the emerging city of Dark Things.

Millennia passed and the slave things began to develop periodic rebellious tendencies, most prominent during specific phases of the stars. The trouble apparently stemmed from the fact that these slaves were now hunting and feeding off several new species of earth life that had begun to evolve unchecked by their masters. They’d acquired a taste for blood and it began to alter them in subtle ways. The bothersome ones were disciplined by the use of an alien alloy, closely resembling silver, that when brought to bear would somehow numb the things back to submission. The dangerous ones were exterminated by various means; those from the sea by sonic dismemberment, and those from the land by curious handheld incendiary devices.

Then some unseen grand disaster rocked and hammered our prehistoric world, so great that it burned away the atmosphere and ripped the very moon into existence. The Dark Things survived, though their great city was plunged many leagues beneath the sea. They were forced to observe helplessly as their entire colonization process came undone beneath the advance of great sheets of ice that spread and shackled the earth.

The sunken, star-born Dark Things sealed themselves into cocoons and fell into deathlike slumber in the lower depths.

Eons passed and slowly the world began to thaw, eventually giving rise to all manner of races and civilizations, while the Dark Things remained trapped beneath the sea. Epochs passed again before mankind finally walked erect upon dry land, and then somewhere—a Dark Thing stirred. For some reason, those primitive Cro-Magnon brains were susceptible to the telepathic communications of the entombed Dark Things, who called to them in their dreams, manifesting most unnatural behaviors that stunted their evolution. Secret rites were transmitted to these early men, of methods lost in ages past; and mankind was divided between those tribes that heeded the call of the Dark Things and those which remained deaf to their influence. I watched, horrified, as this very division introduced the concept of murder to our predecessors.

The Dark Things whispered to their faithful that someday, when the earth had sufficiently warmed, their great city would rise again from the depths, rejoining the coastline from which it broke free, and I was . . .

Thankfully startled awake from the dreadful slumber by Holmes’s insistence that we take our breakfast before embarking on the workday he’d mapped out.

I dressed hastily as the nightmare waned, offering little by way of conversation during our meal together; perplexed by my own heightened level of grotesque imagination.

By the time I’d finally shed the dream, I found myself being jostled about in a coach, with Captain Gent seated across from me and Holmes to my left. “Where are we off to exactly?” I demanded.

“The public sanatorium in Leiden,” Gent said.

“Which one of us is that far gone? It must be me.”

“Quite comedic, Wells,” Holmes said. “This morning, when I explained to Captain Gent that His Majesty had confided the name Elisabeth Cookson to us as a possible suspect, I found, much to my surprise, that he was already acquainted with her.”

“Aye,” Gent replied. “I brought her from the palace to the sanatorium myself not six months back. The very route you both are taking now.”

“What exactly do you know about this woman?” I asked, playing along with Holmes’s ruse.

“Under strict confidence, I tell you that she was a prostitute, involved for a time with young Prince Alexander. After his death she came demanding recompense from His Majesty, spouting all sorts of theatrical nonsense, the last time with a concealed dagger on her person. I assure you, she’s quite mad.”

“Odd that the king allowed an audience to a prostitute,” I remarked.

“Our good king makes himself available to his subjects,” Gent responded, defending his sovereign.

“Of course,” Holmes said.

The sanatorium gates swung wide on rusted hinges and we entered hurriedly. An attendant accompanied us to Miss Cookson, heaping accolades upon the captain all the while. To describe the barbarism glimpsed from cell to filth-strewn cell in our passing would be an exercise in the repulsive with which I will not burden the reader of this tale.

Elisabeth Cookson was a disheveled woman whose age was indeterminate because of a lack of proper hygiene. Hard to imagine her once capable of eliciting the desire of a nobleman. Her dark hair was cut short, doubtless to minimize lice and other infestations. Barefoot she trod, dressed in a simple gown of burlap, wringing her hands and whispering incessantly. One look at the captain and she began shrieking, the corridors echoing with her cries.

“Captain, do please remove yourself,” Holmes requested, and Gent left us alone with her. Immediately, she grew calm and resumed her pacing.

“Vrouw Cookson,” Holmes entreated in Dutch, which I here shall translate. “Please tell us of your claim upon the royal family. We are here to help set things right.”

With alarming speed, she turned and grasped Holmes by his cloak, dragging him close. “The servant of Het Duivelsche Volk, of the Dark Things,” came her cracked and unsettling growl. “It comes to call. We are owed. We are owed at a terrible price!”

At her mention of the Dark Things, I was taken aback, first considering, then abandoning, the idea that she’d entertained dreams similar to my own.

“Who owes you?” Holmes cooed in a settling voice.

She released him and threw her arms in the air, raving, “They all do, the whole lot! Promises broken and blood let!”

“What promises, Miss Cookson? Whose blood let?”

“Yes, yes—she’ll come then. Blood from royal blood.”

Holmes took her roughly by the arm and twirled her toward him. “Who is she? I demand that you tell me!”

The old courtesan cackled. “Yes, she will be blood.”

It was then I took note of the object hanging round the woman’s neck, and shouted, “Holmes, the locket!”

Holmes grasped the thin cord and tore it from her throat, sending the madwoman into a swinging rage that forced us to withdraw from the room. The waiting Captain Gent slammed and bolted the door. Her face against the viewing grate, contorted to violent proportions, Cookson cried out, “Geef het Terug! Give it back! Give it back!”

Gent slammed the grate with his great fist, yelling, “Stand back or forfeit your life!”

“Outside,” Holmes ordered. “This hysteria’s contagious; we need to remove ourselves.”

We left swiftly, fleeing her taunting scream, “We’re promised she’s dead!” I was glad of daylight as we reached the sanatorium steps and regained our composure.

“Forgive me my outburst, Mr. Holmes,” the captain said.

“Understandable, Captain,” Holmes assured him, snapping open the locket and examining the villainess’s photograph within. We looked over his shoulders to view the image of a young girl. Although the quality was poor, her resemblance to the royal family was clear.

Gent’s ruddy cheeks went white. “That’s her,” he exclaimed. “Godverdomme, she’s real!” He stormed back into the building, returning minutes later with the attendant in tow.

“Do you know this girl?” Gent demanded. Holmes brought the photograph up for inspection.

“Yes,” the man replied, still on edge from Miss Cookson’s outburst. “It’s the daughter, Sarah. She visits her mother from time to time, the poor soul.”

“And where might we find her?” Holmes asked.

The orderly shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps the red-light district in Utrecht or Den Haag?”

“The apple falls close to the tree,” Gent said. “Come along, we shall find this young villainess!”

We sped back toward The Hague, where, with picture in hand and guldens to follow, we were soon directed to a guest house on red-light row. Gent entered the house with us tight on his heels. We whisked past enraged bruisers, held back by their distraught madame, to the rooms above, where Gent began kicking in doors and accosting each occupant as to the girl’s whereabouts. Scantily dressed women and their clients vacated the premises by all possible routes. Minutes later, Gent found her, alone and asleep. He barreled through the room, rousing her roughly.

It was indeed the girl in the photograph; as she rose up, struggling to retrieve her thin wrist from the captain, her resemblance to Princess Mina was unmistakable.

“What have I done, what’s the meaning of this?” she cried out, in obvious pain.

“Let her go, Captain,” Holmes insisted. “At least till we’ve made our inquiry.”

Gent grunted and released the girl. She rubbed her injured wrist and began to weep. “What have I done?” she repeated.

“Are you Sarah Cookson, daughter to Elisabeth Cookson?” Holmes asked.

“I am, sir,” she sobbed, her pale skin luminescent. I found myself taken with her.

“Have you been visiting the Palace Noordeinde?”

“Of course she has,” Gent answered for her. “I’ve seen her there with my own eyes.”

“Please, sirs,” the girl entreated, looking at us with tearful eyes that beamed, “I assure you I’ve never stepped foot in Noordeinde. I have no idea what you want of me.”

“Liar!” Gent shouted. “You are a whore and a murderer!”

That she was dumbfounded at his assertion was revealed in her breathtaking body, every inch of which trembled. She rose unsteadily from her bed and reached out clumsily to touch my hand. “Een Moordenaar?” she whispered. “I assure you, kind sir—though I am shamed by my profession, I—have never hurt a living soul.”

In that instant I believed her innocent with every fiber of my being.

“Save your charms, temptress,” Gent said, seizing her once more by the wrist and dragging her from the room in her bedclothes, ignoring Holmes’s entreaty that he stay his hand. Turning back, he called, “Gentlemen, I trust you’ll find your way to Noordeinde. The culprit is apprehended. I’m taking her to the guardhouse for questioning. Your service is much appreciated.”

We followed them out of the brothel as Gent coerced the girl into the coach and drove off.

As Holmes and I walked the cobblestones, asking directions, it began to rain, and for a time neither of us spoke. I broke the silence with, “Holmes, that girl was of royal descent or I’ll lay down my life.”

“Agreed, Wells—the resemblance is uncanny.”

“And here in this country it seems as if guilt is presumed without trial.”

“So it would seem,” Holmes agreed. “Though the man’s a reputed eyewitness.”

“Circumstance and convenience is all—” I stopped then, astonished by the implication of his statement, rain coursing down my face. “Then the case is concluded?” I asked.

Holmes lowered his head. “It would appear so.”

“Then an innocent girl is to be imprisoned and subjected to who knows what tortures, as a result of our diligence and your grave misjudgment of Jan Gent’s character. Blast it, Holmes, at this moment I’m quite sorry I joined you!”

Holmes said nothing as we packed our bags, save “Thank you” to the servant who attended us, and, “Do come along, Wells,” when we were summoned by the queen. So incensed was I at the conclusion to our investigation that I pleaded sudden indisposition and told Holmes to beg the queen’s pardon for my absence.

Once Holmes was gone, I cursed the captain and the royal family, sure in my belief that the poor sobbing girl was incapable of infiltrating these halls and perpetrating such crimes. Parting the curtains, I watched the rolling clouds submerge the final daylight in darkness. Surely there was foul intent amidst these walls, and I was powerless against it.

Suddenly a gentle footfall and an odd smell, like woodlands, caught my attention. I turned, and was astounded to behold the girl, Sarah Cookson. Her bare feet left dark tracks on the marble as she stepped before me, gowned in translucent white fabric, her cheeks ruddy, her dark eyes radiating youthful abandon. So excited was I by her presence, unshackled, that I failed to consider the absurdity of the situation. Before I could speak, she pressed one finger to her crimson mouth to gain my silence, then twirled about, displaying her charms. I watched her, transfixed, overcome by desire. Then, in a movement so swift it brought wind through my hair, she was in my arms, her lips against mine.

A kiss unlike any other; sweet at first, then impassioned, then nearly overwhelming, then a taste in my mouth, not unfamiliar, startled me to my senses. It was blood. I looked at the two of us reflected in the mirror—and caught my breath. This was not Sarah Cookson in my arms but a hideous and shocking creature carved in slick, black, whalelike flesh, a face devoid of features save a gaping mouth hole, entangling me now with several writhing coiled limbs.

I hurled the awful thing away and again it was Sarah; her beauty restored, but now tarnished by a most disturbing grimace. She reached for me; I raised my hands in defense. Upon contact with the silver band across my finger she recoiled, shrieking, and fled from the room with netherworldly speed.

I shouted an alarm, then rushed headlong toward Princess Mina’s room, my heart pounding with each pace, fearing I might be too late. From down the corridor, I heard Mina issue one terrified and prolonged scream. I arrived in time to find the girl caught between a menacing, flaming-candelabra-wielding Holmes and an open window. Holmes forced her backward toward the ledge, where she dove outward and disappeared from view.

Peering down, we saw no evidence of her landing. Princess Mina crouched beneath her bed, apparently unharmed.

An extensive search of the grounds provided no further clues. Holmes sent a messenger to Captain Gent announcing there had been another attack and requesting he meet us back at the sanatorium as quickly as possible. Leaving the princess with her mother under guard, Holmes commandeered a coach and lashed the horses forward as I scrambled aboard, still shaken with disbelief. (To think I had actually embraced the bloody thing!) We rode like the devil through the deserted streets. Arriving at our destination, Holmes pushed the night clerk aside and we raced to Miss Cookson’s cell.

She chuckled nervously as Holmes slammed the door.

“Your daughter Sarah has been arrested and charged with the attempted murder of the Princess Wilhelmina,” Holmes told her. “If you would save her—I’d have you call off that creature this instant!”

Her humor quickly left her. “You must release my daughter; she’s no part of this!” she pleaded.

“That’s up to you now,” Holmes replied, unmoved.

“But—I have no power to halt what’s begun!”

“Then instruct us,” I said, stepping forward.

“It were the princes, not I, that planted the damned thing. Sarah knew nothing of it, she was but a child,” she moaned, quaking.

“Planted? Do explain!” Holmes demanded.

“No, I mustn’t! Het wordt mij verboden!”

“Forbidden by whom?” At this, Holmes drew forth the locket, unclasped it, and held it forth. “Take this back as a token of my word that you’ll be protected. And think now of Sarah above yourself!”

She grasped the locket and gazed upon the photograph, quieting. “When they received word that Mina was born, they were furious. Alexander was schooled in the Pnakotic ways and damned his knees at the altar of Yog-Sothoth, invoking the forbidden rites from the stolen book and setting the thing to grow. He took my Sarah’s blood from her against my wish.”

“Blood, you say? How much blood was taken?”

“A pint,” the crone whispered. “One pint per month for a year from my dear one. Siphoned with the cruelest of tools. She were helpless, sir!”

“To what purpose was this blood put?”

“So the Shoggoth might grow to bear her likeness—this slave of their revenge.”

The strange word birthed terror within me, for I knew it to be coupled to the dream.

“How might this Shoggoth be stopped?” Holmes demanded, his voice tripping on the alien word, confirming my dread that it was not of Dutch origin. “Speak now. I hear the captain’s coach approaching!”

The woman shriveled up against the stone in the corner as Holmes’s broad cloak enveloped her.

“Find the root. Sever the thing at the root, lest it grow back, God allemachtig!”

“Where do I find it?”

“Where it was begun,” she whispered hoarsely. “The southernmost tip of De Veluwe.” At the last she collapsed, blathering. We left her there, staring into the locket, to join Captain Gent.

We took Gent’s coach, as it was more fortified, and we three, accompanied by five guardsmen, sped off for the Veluwe, a dense wooded area several hours’ journey east. The sheer insanity of all that had transpired nearly overwhelmed me, and I struggled to keep my wits, saying little, but fearing much.

“I trust Sarah Cookson’s name will be cleared,” Holmes said to Gent, “seeing that this last attack came whilst she was held in your custody.”

“The girl will be released, Mr. Holmes, when I’m sure that the princess is safe, not before.”

The damp and evil sounds of the night increased tenfold as the road gave way to forest trails. The hooting of several large gray owls announced our passage as if telegraphing danger, and Gent’s men began preparing their rifles with ammunition.

“If this is a trick of the old woman, she shall pay dearly,” Gent said.

The southernmost tip of the Veluwe was an odd bit of woodland. We stepped from the coach in silence, enthralled by the milky-black stillness. The captain’s men used kerosene lamps to light torches, and passed one to me.

“See how the trees grow so densely in that patch,” Holmes directed our attention. “Most unnatural.”

We approached the cluster of trees and circled its perimeter. “Holmes,” I said, clasping his elbow as we moved, “Do you smell that? The same scent as from the palace.”

He nodded affirmation as I supressed my urge to run.

Holmes was correct: this was no natural formation of trees. The trunks were gnarled with great tumors, their limbs woven together like incestuous lovers, the flaking bark of the wood cold and slick to the touch, like the skin of a reptile. The thorned branches thrust sharply outward like claws, and the whole growth gave one the impression of many black entities congealed into a single one. Each step I took was laborious, each outthrust root a cause for alarm.

Holmes beckoned me with a wave of his torch to a dark cavity carved in the wood.

“An orifice,” he whispered, reaching out to touch the lip of the opening. His hand came back wet. He brought down my torch to inspect the viscous red fluid on his fingers, then called out, “Captain, come at once!”

All torches were brought to bear; we gazed into the hole and beheld the unspeakable.

There, burrowed in the wet wood, entwined with bloodied vines like throbbing veins, the girl was nestled. A perfect doppelgänger of Sarah in every detail, save the insidious expression on its carved face as it slumbered.

“God allemachtig!” Gent cried out, visibly shaken.

“The Shoggoth,” I whispered with twin dread and awe at the alien word on my lips. “Holmes, touch your ring to the wood.”

Holmes touched his left hand to the trunk for a moment. The girl-thing writhed.

“Wells, how do we kill this thing?” Holmes asked, deferring to my sudden display of intuition.

All eyes fell on me as I shivered and surrendered myself to details of my dangerous vision—how the Dark Things would exterminate their land-born slaves. “It’s fire,” I proclaimed. “Burn the tree and it dies along with it!”

“Are you quite sure, Wells?”

“How can I be sure, Holmes? But it’s clear that this tree is the nest.”

Captain Gent stood guard before the hole as his men retrieved kerosene from the coach whilst Holmes and I dragged up huge mounds of dead needles and dry twigs to ring the base of the tree. Then Holmes pulled his pipe, struck a match, took a draw, and knelt to light the kindling.

We stepped back and watched the tree catch fire and burn as hideous, soul-wrenching screams emanated from the very wood itself—screams that would haunt me the rest of my days.

“We’ve saved the princess, Holmes,” I said.

Holmes nodded and drew at his pipe. “Indeed, Wells, though I fear this particular evil is but one severed tentacle heralding much darker forces to come.”

I pulled my cloak tightly about my shoulders as the sun began filtering through the trees.

Holmes was correct: the journey had been inspirational, in a most horrific manner. The girl, Sarah Cookson, was released and provided a modest endowment for her silence. Upon the king’s subsequent death, the Princess Wilhelmina did indeed ascend the throne, at age ten, and conduct her country admirably through the Second World War. I can only assume that Holmes confiscated and destroyed the evil Necronomicon, though I have never dared to broach the subject. For when social occasions brought the two of us together, he refused to speak openly of the matter—though I observed that the silver ring, twin to my own, remained always upon him.