Weird Detectives: Recent Investigations

SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE DIVING BELL Simon Clark

That astonishing summons brought me to the Cornish harbor town of Fowey. There, as directed by further information within the telegram, I joined my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, on a tugboat, which immediately steamed toward the open sea. The rapid pounding of the engine made for an urgent drumbeat. One that reinforced the notion that once more we’d embarked upon a headlong dash to adventure.

By the time I’d regained my breath, after a somewhat hurried embarkation, I saw that Holmes had taken up a position in the tugboat’s bow. There he stood, straight-backed, thin as a pikestaff, hatless, and dressed severely in black. Every inch the eager seeker of truth. His deep-set eyes raked the turquoise ocean, hunting for what he knew must lie out here.

But what, exactly, was the nature of our case? He’d given no elaboration, other than that mystifying statement in the telegram. That which cannot be. Is.

I picked my way across the deck, over coils of rope, rusty chain, and assorted winding gear that adorned this grubby little workhorse of the sea. The vessel moved at the limits of its speed. Steam hissed from pipes, smoke tumbled out of the funnel to stain an otherwise perfectly blue June sky. Gulls wheeled about our craft, for the moment mistaking us for a fishing boat. Either they finally understood that we didn’t carry so much as a mackerel or, perhaps, they sensed danger ahead, for the birds suddenly departed on powerful wings, uttering such piercing shrieks that they could be plainly heard above the whoosh! and shorr! of the engine.

Likewise, I made it my business to be overheard above the machine, too. “Holmes. What’s happened?”

That distinctive profile remained. He didn’t even glance in my direction.

“Holmes, good God, man! The telegram! What does it mean?”

Still he did not turn. Instead, he rested his fingertip against his lips.

Hush.

My friend is not given to personal melodrama, or prone to questioning my loyalties by virtue of frivolous tests. Clearly, this was a matter of great importance. Just what that matter was I’d have to wait and see. However, a certain rigidity of his posture and grimness of expression sent a chill foreboding through my blood. Terrible events loomed—or so I divined. Therefore, I stood beside that black clad figure, said nothing, and waited for the tugboat to bear us to our destination.

Presently, I saw where we were headed. Sitting there, as a blot of darkness on the glittering sea, was a large vessel of iron. What I’d first surmised to be a stunted mast between the aft deck and the funnel was, in fact, a crane. A cable ran from the pulley at the tip of that formidable lifting arm to a gray object on the aft deck.

In the next half hour Holmes would speak but tersely. “Steel yourself, Watson.” That was his sole item of conversation on the tugboat.

The dourness of countenance revealed that some immense problem weighed heavy on the man. His long fingers curled around the rail at the prow. Muscle tension produced a distinct whitening of the knuckles. His piercing eyes regarded the iron ship, which grew ever nearer. And he looked at that ship as a man might who’d seen a gravestone on which his own name is etched with the days of his mortal arrival and, more disconcertingly, his departure.

The tugboat captain fired off two short blasts of the steam whistle. The leviathan at anchor gave an answering call on its horn. A mournful sound to be sure. Soon the tugboat drew alongside. A grim-faced Holmes took my elbow in order to help me safely pass from the heaving tugboat to the rope ladder that had been cast down for us.

My heart, and I readily confess the fact, pounded nearly as hard as the pistons of the tugboat. For, as I climbed up toward the guardrail fifteen feet above me, I saw an assembly of faces. They regarded me with such melancholy that I fully expected to be marched to a gallows where my noose awaited.

Panting, I clambered over the rail onto the aft deck. There, something resembling the boiler of a locomotive, lying horizontally, dominated the area. A pair of hawsers ran from this giant cylinder to a linking ring; from that stout ring a single hawser of great thickness rose to the crane’s tip.

Holmes followed me on deck.

Immediately, a man of around sixty, or so, strode forward. His face had been reddened by ocean gales and the sun. A tracery of purple veins emerged from a pair of mutton-chop side-whiskers that were as large as they were perfectly white. Those dark veins appeared as distinct as contour lines on a map. Such a weather-beaten visage could have been on loan from the Ancient Mariner himself. His wide, gray eyes examined my face, as if attempting to discern whether I was a fellow who’d stand firm in the face of danger, or take flight. That assessment appeared to be of great importance to him.

Holmes introduced me to this venerable seaman. “Captain Smeaton. Dr. Watson.” We shook hands. His grasp was steel. Holmes closed with the terse request: “Captain Smeaton, please explain.”

The captain shared the same funereal expression as the rest of his crew. Not smiling once. Nevertheless, he did speak.

“Dr. Watson,” he began in a voice long since made permanently hoarse from having to make himself heard above ocean storms, “I don’t know what Mr. Holmes has revealed to you about our plight.”

“Nothing.” To avoid my friend’s silence on this matter as being altogether too strange I added, “I arrived from London in something of a rush.”

Captain Smeaton didn’t appear concerned by my ignorance and continued swiftly. “You’re on board the Fitzwilliam, a salvage vessel. Mr. Holmes spent the day with us yesterday, because . . . well . . . I’ll come to that later, sir. I’ll tell the story in plain-speak. There’s no requirement for me to embellish with colorful or dramatic phrases, because what you’ll witness is going to strike at the heart of you anyway.”

Holmes stood beside me, listening carefully.

The Captain did as he promised, rendering his account in deep, whispery tones that were plain and very much to the point. “Five years ago, Dr. Watson, we were engaged by the admiralty to recover silver bullion from the SS Runswick, which lies ninety fathoms beneath our keel. The depth is too great for divers using Siebe Gorman suits. They can operate to depths nearing thirty fathoms or so—to go any deeper is certain death. So we use Submarine Chambers, such as this.” He indicated the iron cylinder that occupied the deck. Moisture dripped from its massive flanks. Bulbous rivets held that hulking beast together in such a formidable way the thing appeared downright indestructible to my eyes.

“A diving bell?” I asked.

“As they are commonly known. Diving bells have been used since the time of the ancient Greeks, sir. Back then they’d simply invert a cauldron, trapping the air inside. This they’d submerge into the ocean. A diver would then visit the air pocket in order to breathe. That arrangement allowed sponge divers, and the like, much greater duration on the seabed.”

“Remarkable,” I commented, eying the huge vessel squatting there on the deck. “And this is the twentieth century descendent of the cauldron?”

“That it is, sir.” Captain Smeaton’s gaze strayed toward Holmes as if seeking permission to continue. Holmes gave a slight nod. “To get to the meat of the matter, sir, back in 1899 we used a diving bell to retrieve silver bullion from the sunken ship. One particular morning, I ordered that the Pollux, which is the name of the bell, be lowered to the ocean floor. On board was a man by the name of George Barstow. The diving bell was delivered to the wreck by crane, as you see here, sir. It is both lowered, and raised to the surface by means of a steel hawser. Fresh air is pumped down to the craft via a tube. Contact is maintained between the ship and the diving bell by telephone. I tell you, gentlemen, I curse the hour that I ordered Barstow to man the craft. Not a day goes by without me reliving those terrible events.” He took a deep breath, his gray eyes glistened. “Initially, the dive went well. Barstow descended to the wreck without incident. His function was to act as observer and to send directions, via telephone apparatus, to my men on the ship to lower a grappling hook in order to retrieve the cargo. We successfully hooked five cases of silver and brought them to the surface. Then I noticed a swell had begun to run. This poses a risk to diving bells as it puts excessive strain on the hawser. I gave the order to winch the craft back to the surface.” He paused for moment. “That’s when Barstow spoke to me by telephone. He reported that the diving bell had become caught on the superstructure of the wreck. The thing had jammed fast. We tried every which way to free the bell. Meanwhile, waves had started to break against the sides of the ship. So I told the winch-man to use brute force and haul the diving bell free.” He paused again. Trying to avoid melodrama, he said simply. “The hawser snapped. As did the telephone line and air pipe. That was five years ago. The Pollux became George Barstow’s coffin. He’s been down there ever since.”

“And now you are trying to recover the Pollux and the man’s body?”

“Indeed we are, Dr. Watson.” He nodded to where a hawser ran along a steel channel to a fixing point on deck. Barnacles and brown kelp sheathed the hawser. “That’s from the Pollux. We recovered it three days ago.”

“It’s still attached to the diving bell?”

The captain nodded his gray head. “The Pollux is held down there on the seabed. Probably the old wreck’s doing. Even so, we made fast the cable on deck here. I’m going to do my damndest to haul that diving bell out of Davy Jones’s locker and bring the blasted thing back to dry land, so help me.” His hands shook as a powerful emotion took charge. “Or it’ll be the death of me in trying.”

I looked to Holmes for some explanation. After all, a salvage operation? Surely that’s a matter that doesn’t require the intervention of the world’s greatest consulting detective.

“Yesterday,” Holmes said. “The diving bell’s twin went in search of its sibling.”

I turned to the vessel that so much resembled the boiler of a locomotive. On the side of that great iron cylinder was painted, in white, the name Castor. “And did it find its twin?”

“It did. The diving bell returned without apparent incident. However, the crew of two were, on the opening of the hatch, found to be quite dead.”

“Quite dead!” thundered the Captain. “They died of fright. Just take one look at their faces!”

“What I require of my friend, Dr. Watson, is to examine the deceased. If you will kindly take us to the bodies.”

“Holmes?” I regarded him with surprise. “A post mortem?”

“The simple cause of death will be sufficient, Watson.”

“I can’t, Holmes.”

“You must, and quickly.”

“Not unless I am authorized by the local constabulary, or the coroner.”

“You must tell me how they died, Watson.”

“Holmes, I protest. I shall be breaking the law.”

“Oh, but you must, Watson. Because I am to be—” he struck the side of the diving bell, “—this vessel’s next passenger!”

Before I could stutter a reply a sailor approached. “Captain! It’s started again! The sounds are coming up the line!” His eyes were round with fear. “And it’s trying to make words!”

That expression of dread on the man’s face communicated a thrill of fear to my very veins. “What’s happening, Holmes? What sounds?”

“We’re in receipt of another telephone call.” His deep-set eyes locked onto mine. “It hails from ninety fathoms down. And it’s coming from the Pollux!”

Upon passing through a door marked Control Room, we were greeted by a remarkable sight.

Three men in officer’s uniforms gathered before telephony apparatus on a table. Fixed to the wall, immediately in front of them, was a horn of the type that amplifies the music from a gramophone. Nearby, two young women stood with their arms round each other, like children frightened of a thunderstorm. Both were dressed in black muslin. Both had lustrous, dark eyes set into bone-white faces. And both faces were identical.

Twins. That much was evident.

The occupants of the room stared at the horn on the wall. Their eyes were open wide, their expressions radiated absolute horror. Faces quivered. They hardly dared breathe, lest a quick intake of breath would invite sudden, and brutal, destruction.

Holmes strode toward the gathering. “Are the sounds the same as before?”

An officer with a clipped red beard answered, but he couldn’t take his bulging eyes from the speaker horn. “They began the same . . . in the last few minutes; however, they’ve begun to change.”

A second officer added, “As if it’s trying to form words.”

The third cried, “Sir! What if it really is him? After all this time!”

“Keep your nerve, Jessup. Remember that ladies are present.” Captain Smeaton tilted his head in the direction of the two women. Then he said, “Dr. Watson. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Katrina Barstow, widow of George Barstow, and her sister, Miss Claudine Millwood.”

“Evidently,” murmured Holmes, “this isn’t the occasion for formal introductions.”

For the women in black disregarded me; they hugged each other tight, desperate for some degree of comfort amid the horror.

“A series of clicks.” Holmes tilted his head to one side as he listened. “Almost like the sound produced on a telephone speaker when a thunderstorm is approaching.”

Jessup cried, “Or the sound of his bones. They’ve begun moving about the Pollux!”

Captain Smeaton spoke calmly. “Go below to your cabin, Jessup.” Jessup fled from his post, and fled gratefully it seemed to me.

More clicks issued from the horn. The women moaned with dismay. Mrs. Barstow pressed a handkerchief against her mouth as if to stifle a scream.

Captain Smeaton explained, “After the hawser was recovered from the seabed, my crew secured it to a deck bollard. One of the ship’s apprentices did what he was routinely supposed to do. He attached the Pollux’s telephone wire to this telephone apparatus.”

Holmes turned to the Captain. “And that’s when you began to hear unusual sounds?”

“Unusual?” exclaimed the red-bearded officer. “Terrible sounds, sir. They come back to you in your dreams.”

I listened to the leaden clicking. Very much the sound of old bone striking against yet more bone. “Forgive me, if I ask the obvious. But do you maintain that the telephone line connects this apparatus with that in the diving bell, which has lain on the seabed for five years?”

“Yes, Dr. Watson. I fear I do.” Captain Smeaton shuddered. “And I wish circumstances did not require me to make such a claim.”

“And those clicks are transmitted up the wire from . . . ” I refrained from adding Barstow’s tomb.

Sherlock Holmes turned to me quickly. “Ha! There you have it, Watson. That which cannot be. Is.”

“Then it is a fault with the mechanism. Surely?”

“Would I have come aboard this ship, Watson, to attend to an electrical fault? They did not mistake me for a telephony engineer.”

“But dash it all, Holmes—”

Then it issued from the horn. A deep voice. Wordless. Full of pain, regret, and an unquestionable longing. “Urrr . . . hmm . . . ahhh . . . ”

Ice dashed through my veins. Freezing me into absolute stillness. “That sound . . . ”

“Human?” asked Holmes.

“Decidedly. At least, it appears so.”

“Fffmm . . . arrnurr . . . Mmm-ursss . . . ”

The deep, shimmering voice from the horn trailed away into a sigh comprised of ghosting esses. “Ssss . . . ”

The pent-up scream discharged at last. Mrs. Barstow cried, “That’s my husband! He’s alive. Please bring him back to me. Please!”

Her sister murmured to her, reassuring her, comforting her.

“No, Holmes,” I whispered to my friend. “That’s impossible. No mortal man could survive five years underwater without air.”

“Survive? Or evolve? As environment demands? Remember Darwin.”

“Holmes, surely you’re not suggesting—”

“I’m suggesting we keep our minds open. As well as our eyes.”

The voice came ghosting from the horn again. That longing—yet it appeared to come from the lips of a man who had witnessed the unimaginable. His widow wept.

Captain Smeaton said, “Perhaps the ladies should leave.”

“No!” Holmes held up his hand. “Now is the time to unravel this particular mystery!”

The syllables rising from the Pollux became a long, wordless groan.

“Mrs. Barstow.” Holmes spoke briskly. “Forgive what will be difficult questions at this vexing time. What did you call your husband?”

The widow’s eyes, which were surely as dark as the coal that fired water into steam in this very ship, regarded Holmes with surprise.

“Madam, how did you address your husband?”

She responded with amazement. “His name? Are you quite mad?”

“Madam, indulge me. Please.”

“My husband’s name is Mr. George Barstow.”

His manner became severe. “You were husband and wife. Surely, you gave him a familiar name? A private name?”

“Mr. Holmes, I protest—”

“A nickname.”

Miss Millwood stood with her arm around Mrs. Barstow, glaring with the utmost ferocity at my friend.

“If I am to unravel this mystery, then you must answer my questions.”

The groaning from the horn suddenly faded. An expectant silence followed. An impression of someone listening hard. A someone not in that room.

Still Mrs. Barstow prevaricated. “I don’t understand what you would have me say, Mr. Holmes.”

“Tell me the private name with which you addressed the man whom you loved so dearly. The name you spoke when you and he were alone.”

A storm of rage erupted. Not from any living mouth there. It came from the speaker horn that was connected by some hundred fathoms of cable to the diving bell at the bottom of the ocean. The roar came back double, then again many-fold. It seemed as if demons by the legion bellowed their fury, their outrage and their jealous anger from the device. The pair of ship’s officers at the desk covered their ears and fled through the doorway.

At last the awful expulsion of wrath faded. The speaker horn fell silent. Everyone in the room had been struck silent, too. All, that is, except for Sherlock Holmes.

“Mrs. Barstow. A moment ago you said these words to me: ‘My husband’s name is Mr. George Barstow.’ ”

“Indeed.” Recovering her composure, she stood straighter.

“Is, Madam, not was?”

“Is!”

“Therefore in the present tense. As if he is still alive?”

“Of course.” She pointed a trembling finger at the speaker horn. “Because he lives. That’s his voice.”

“Then perhaps you will tell me your private name for Mr. Barstow? The one you use when the servants are gone, and all the lamps are extinguished.”

The blast of sound from the instrument almost swept us off our feet. A glass of water on the desk shattered. At that moment, the widow’s sister stiffened, her eyes rolled back, and she fell into a dead faint. Holmes caught the woman to prevent her striking the floor.

Nevertheless, he fixed Mrs. Barstow with a penetrating gaze. “Madam. I am still waiting for you to reveal the name—that secret name only you and he knew.”

“Katrina. Stay silent. Do not say it!”

All heads turned to the speaker. That voice! Waves of such uncanny power radiated from every syllable.

“George,” she cried.

“Do not speak with Sherlock Holmes. He is evil. The man is our enemy!”

“You heard with your own ears!” she shouted, her fist pressed to her breast. “My husband is alive!” She turned to Captain Smeaton. “Send the machine down to save him.”

Captain Smeaton’s weather-beaten face assumed a deeper shade of purple. “I will not. Whatever’s down there can no longer be George Barstow. Not after five years.”

“He’s immortal,” she cried. “Just as my sister promised.”

My friend’s eyes narrowed as the widow voiced this statement. Quickly, he settled the unconscious form of Miss Claudine Millwood into a chair at the desk. I checked the pulse in her neck.

“Strong . . . very strong. She’s fainted, that’s all.”

“Thank you, Watson,” said Holmes. “And I rather think the pieces of our jigsaw are falling into place.” He picked up the handset part of the phone and spoke into the mouthpiece. “Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

“Barstow.”

“For a man dead these last five years you sound remarkably vigorous.”

“So shall I be when you are dust, sir.”

Holmes turned to Captain Smeaton.

“You knew Barstow well. Is that his voice?”

“God help us. Indeed it is.”

Mrs. Barstow clawed at Smeaton’s arm. “Send the machine. Bring him to me!”

“No!” Captain Smeaton’s voice rang out with fear, rather than anger.

“I agree with Mrs. Barstow.” Holmes pulled on his black leather gloves. “Prepare the diving bell. I will visit the Pollux myself.”

“Impossible.”

“I insist. For I must see for myself who—or what—is the tenant of your lost machine.”

Not many men thwart my friend, Sherlock Holmes. Ten minutes later, the crew had the Castor ready for descent. Holmes quickly returned to the control room. The twin sister still lay unconscious; the horror had overwhelmed her senses. The widow stood perfectly straight: her dark eyes regarded Holmes from a bone-white face.

“Mrs. Barstow,” he intoned. “You do know that what you crave is an impossibility? Your husband cannot still be a living, breathing man after five years in that iron canister.”

“I have faith.”

“I see.”

“Mr. Holmes, do you wish to hear that private name I gave my husband?”

Holmes spoke kindly, “That will no longer be necessary.”

I couldn’t remain silent. “Good God, man, surely you will not descend in that machine?”

“I have no choice, Watson.”

“Please, Holmes, I beg—”

“Wait for me here, won’t you, old friend?” He gave a wry smile. “Fates willing, this won’t be a lengthy journey.” He picked up the telephone’s handset. “But first, one more question. Barstow?”

A sound of respiration gusted from the speaker.

“Barstow. Tell me what you see from your lair?”

“All is green. All is green. And yet . . . ”

“And yet what?”

“The funnel of this wreck towers above the diving bell. Always I see the funnel standing there. A black monolith. A grave-marker. Do not come here . . . ”

“It is my duty, sir. You are a mystery. I must investigate.”

“No.”

“My nature compels me.”

“No! If you should dare to approach my vessel I will destroy you!”

“Sir, I shall be with you presently.”

Holmes briskly left the room. The voice still screamed from the speaker: “You will die! You will die!”

We crossed the aft deck to the Castor. With utter conviction I announced, “Holmes. I’m coming with you.”

He gave a grim smile. “Watson. I was rather hoping you would.”

Moments later, we clambered through a hatch into the huge iron cylinder. In shape and in size, it resembled, as I’ve previously described, the boiler of a locomotive. Within: a bench in padded red plush ran along one wall. In the wall opposite the seat, a pair of portholes cast from enormously thick glass. They were set side by side, and prompted one to envisage the bulging eyes of some primordial creature. Above us, the blue sky remained in view through the open hatch. Captain Smeaton appeared.

“Gentlemen. You will receive fresh air through the tube. If you wish to speak to me, use the telephone mounted on the wall there beside you. God speed!”

“One moment, Captain,” said Holmes. “When Watson and I are dispatched to the seabed, ensure that Mrs. Barstow and her sister remain in the control room with you. Is that understood?”

“Aye-aye, Mr. Holmes.”

“Upon your word?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. Because their proximity to you might very well be a matter of life and death.”

Then the hatch was sealed tight. A series of clanks, a jerking sensation, the crane lifted the Castor off the deck. A swaying movement, and I spied through the thick portholes that we were swung over the guardrail and dangled over the ocean; such a searing blue at that moment. “Castor and Pollux,” I whispered, every fiber tensing. “The heavenly twins.”

“Not only that. In most classical legends Pollux is immortal. Whereas—” he patted the curving iron wall in front of him. “—Castor is a mere mortal. And capable of death.”

The shudders transmitted along the hawser to the diving bell were disconcertingly fierce. The sounds of the crane motors were very loud. In truth, louder than I deemed possible. Until, that is, the diving bell reached the sea. With a flurry of bubbles it sank beneath the surface. White froth gave way to clear turquoise.

Swiftly, the vessel descended. Silent now. An iron calf slipping free of its hulking mother on the surface.

“Don’t neglect to breathe, Watson.”

I realized I was holding my breath. “Thank you, Holmes.”

“Fresh air is pumped through the inlet hose above our heads.”

“Hardly fresh.” I managed a grim smile. “It reeks of coal smoke and tickles the back of the throat so.”

“At least it is wholesome . . . if decidedly pungent.”

The light began to fade as we sank deeper. I took stock of my surroundings. The interior of the cylinder offered little more room than the interior of a hansom cab. Indeed, we sat side by side. Between us hung the cable of the telephone. The handset had been clipped to the wall within easy reach. And down we went.

Darker . . . darker . . . darker . . . The vessel swayed slightly. My stomach lightened a little, as when descending by elevator. I clenched my fists upon my lap until the knuckles turned white.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Holmes said. “The barometric pressure of the interior remains the same as that of sea-level.”

“Then we will be spared the bends and nitrogen narcosis. The former is agonizing. The latter intoxicates and induces hallucination.”

“Ah! You know about the medical perils of deep-sea diving.”

“When a former army doctor sits beside a naval doctor at his club you can imagine the topics of conversation over the glasses of port.” I clicked my tongue. “And now I tell you this so as to distract myself from the knowledge that we are descending over five hundred feet to the ocean floor. In a blessed tin can!”

Holmes leaned forward, eager to witness what lay beyond the glass. The water had dulled from bright turquoise to blue. To deep blue. A pink jellyfish floated by. A globular sac from which delicate filaments descended. Altogether a beautiful creature. Totally unlike the viscous remains of jellyfish one finds washed ashore.

Holmes read a dial set between the portholes. “Sixty fathoms. Two thirds of the way there, Watson.”

“Dear Lord.”

“Soon we should see the shipwreck. And shortly, thereafter, this vessel’s twin.”

“Twin?” I echoed. “Which reminds me. I thought the twin sisters we encountered today were decidedly odd.”

“Ah-ha. So we are two minds with a single thought.”

“And no doubt you deduced far more than I could from their dress, speech and retinue of subtle clues.”

“Supposition at the moment, Watson, rather than deduction. Before I make any pronouncement on the sisters, or the singular voice emerging from the telephone, I need to see just who is in residence in the Pollux. Which, if I’m not mistaken, is coming into view below.”

He’d no sooner uttered the words when a shadow raced from the darkness beyond the porthole glass. Silently, it rushed by.

“What the devil was that?” I asked in surprise.

“Possibly a dolphin or a shark . . . ” He pressed his fingertips together as he considered. “Although I doubt it very much.”

The mystifying remark didn’t ease my trepidation. And that trepidation turned into one of overt alarm when a clang sounded against the side of the diving bell. The entire structure lurched, forcing us to hold tight to a brass rail in front of us.

“Some denizen of the deep doesn’t want us here,” observed Holmes. “Here it comes again.”

The dark shape torpedoed from the gloom surrounding the diving bell. Once more it struck the iron cylinder.

“We should inform Captain Smeaton,” I ventured.

“In which case he’ll winch us back up forthwith. No, we must see the occupant of the Pollux. That is vital, if we are to explain what is happening here.”

Darkly, I murmured, “Barstow didn’t want us to call on him. He promised our destruction if we tried.”

“Yes, he did, didn’t he?” Holmes watched the cylinder resolve itself in the gloom beneath us. “So why does he—or what he has become—desire to remain hidden away on the seabed?”

“Hypothetically speaking, Holmes?”

“While we are in a speculative frame of mind: Barstow described his surroundings for us via the telephone. Be so good as to repeat his description.”

“Let me see: Green. Yes, his words were ‘all is green.’ ”

“Continue, pray.”

“And he made much of the wreck’s funnel. How it loomed over him. A grave-marker as he put it.”

“What color is the seawater down here. Green?”

“No, it’s black.”

“Indeed, Watson. And as for the ship’s funnel? A great monolith of a structure?”

“Where is the funnel? I don’t see one.”

“Because there is no funnel. At least there isn’t one fixed to the wreck. It must have become detached as the ship foundered years ago.”

“So, why did Barstow describe the wreck in such a way?”

“Evidently, Barstow cannot see the wreck as it really is, sans funnel. Nor can he see that the water at this depth is black—not green.”

“So who did the voice belong to that we heard coming from the speaker?”

“It belongs to whoever is responsible for the deaths of those two men yesterday. And who will be responsible for our deaths today, if our wits aren’t sharp enough.” He clapped his hands together. “Pah! See the wreck. It’s a jumble of scrap metal covered in weed. Barstow’s description belonged to someone who has never seen a wreck on the ocean bed before. Instead, they based their description on pictures of ships that they see on sitting room walls.”

“To repeat myself, Holmes, who did the voice actually belong to?”

“Ah, that can wait, Watson. Our descent is slowing. Soon we will look into Barstow’s lair.” He shot me a glance. “His tomb?”

The crane operator stopped paying out the hawser as we bumped against the bottom. Just a yard or so away lay the diving bell—the twin of the one we now sat in. Though confoundedly gloomy down here I could make out some detail. Kelp grew from the iron cylinder. The rounded shape was suggestive of some monstrous skull covered with flowing hair. Spars from the wreck had enclosed the diving bell like the bars of a cage, trapping it that fateful day five years ago. A grip so tight that the haulage gear had snapped the hawser as it strove to raise the doomed submersible to the surface.

Those black waters would reveal little. Not until Holmes closed a switch. The moment he did so, a light sprang from the lamp fixed to our craft. “Now we can see who resides inside the Pollux.”

Holmes took a deep breath as his keen eyes made an assessment. “Are we of the same opinion of the occupant?”

Likewise, I took a steadying breath. I peered through our porthole and into the porthole of the craft trapped by the stricken bullion carrier, Fitzwilliam. “Now I see. But I don’t understand how he speaks to us.”

“Confirm what you observe, Watson.”

“A cadaver. Partly mummified as a result of being confined in an airtight compartment. Inert. Lying on the bench at the rear of the vessel.”

“The man would have been dead within a few hours of being marooned without an air supply. Is that not so?”

“Agreed.”

“Notice that the hawser has been retrieved and snakes up to the surface. But notice, equally, that the telephone cable has been snapped at the point it should enter the Pollux. Barstow, alive or dead, never made so much as a single call once that cable had parted from the apparatus within his diving bell.”

“So, who is responsible?”

“A creature of flesh and blood!” If it weren’t for the confines of the diving bell an excited Sherlock Holmes would have sprung to his feet. “Miss Claudine Millwood! Twin sister of that man’s widow.” He inhaled deeply, his nostrils twitching in the manner of a predator catching scent of its prey. “You see, Watson, I shall one day write a monograph on an especially rarefied subject. Yet one which will be invaluable to police when interrogating suspects or, more importantly, discussing certain matters, within the hearing of a suspect. I have observed, during my career as a consulting detective, that the eyes of a human being move in such a prescribed way that they hint at what they are thinking. Strongly hint at that! With practice, one can become quite adept at reading the eye-line of a man or woman.”

“Therefore, you studied Miss Claudine Millwood when you questioned Mrs. Barstow?”

“That I did, sir. In this case, as I spoke to the widow, I also took careful note of the direction of Miss Millwood’s eye-line. When I mentioned Mr. Barstow by name the woman’s gaze became unfocused, yet directed slightly downward and some degrees off center to her left. Trust me, Watson, how we arrange our limbs and direct our gaze reveals volumes to the competent observer.”

“Therefore you could glean her unspoken thoughts?”

“To a degree. The direction of her gaze and the unfocused eyes told me that Miss Millwood was in the process of recalling a memory that is not only secret to her, but one she knew would shock or revolt right-minded individuals. That was enough to arouse my suspicions.”

“And you divined this by reading the eye-line? Remarkable!”

“Just as you, a medical man, can diagnose an illness from subtle symptoms. Moreover! The woman couldn’t bear to hear her own sister reveal that private, intimate name, which, once upon a time, she murmured into her husband’s ear. A name that Claudine Millwood did not know.”

“Millwood was in love with her sister’s husband?”

“Without a shadow of doubt. Whether that love was reciprocated or not we don’t know.”

“And during the years Barstow lay in that iron tomb the love grew.”

“Indeed! The love grew—and it grew malignantly. That obsessive love took on a life of its own. Millwood projected thoughts from her own mind into the telephone apparatus. She imitated the late Mr. Barstow.”

“Why didn’t she want us to venture down here?”

“That would have destroyed the fantasy. We would have returned to the surface, but not, however, with an account of finding a handsome young man full of miraculous life, still trapped within the diving bell. No! We would have returned with the grim fact that we gazed upon a shrivelled corpse.” Holmes snapped his fingers. “We would have ruptured the fantasy. The woman has incredible mental powers, certainly—yet she is quite mad.”

“So she killed the crew of the Castor yesterday?”

“In order to prevent them describing what we, ourselves, now see.”

“Holmes, Captain Smeaton claimed they were frightened to death.”

“Miss Millwood will have conjured some terrible chimera, no doubt.”

“And the shadow that attacked us as we descended?”

“Millwood.”

“Then she won’t allow us to return to the surface?”

“No, Watson. She will not.”

“Therefore, she won’t stop at yet more slayings to keep her fantasy alive—that Barstow is immortal?”

“Indubitably. However, we do have recourse to the telephone.” He picked up the handset.

“But the woman fell in a dead faint. I checked her myself; she’s deeply unconscious.”

“My good doctor, I don’t doubt your assessment. However, recall the essays of Freud and Jung. Aren’t the leviathans of deep waters nothing in comparison to those leviathans of our own subconscious?”

Holmes turned the handle of the telephone apparatus. At that precise instant, a dark shape sped through the field of electric light. This time the walls didn’t impede its progress. A monstrous shadow flowed through the iron casing of the diving bell. Instantly it engulfed us. We could barely breathe as tendrils of darkness slipped into our bodies, seeking to occupy every nerve and sinew.

“Watson, I am mistaken! The woman’s attacks are far more visceral than I anticipated.”

“She’s invading the heart. Those men died of heart failure. Ah . . . ” A weight appeared to settle onto my ribs. Breathing became harder. My heart thudded, labouring under the influence of that malign spirit. “Holmes, you must tell the . . . the captain to distract her. Her flow of unconscious thought must be disrupted.”

Holmes grimaced as he struggled to breathe. “A shock . . . how best to administer a shock?”

“Electricity.”

With a huge effort Holmes spoke into the telephone. “Captain Smeaton. Ah . . . I . . . ”

“Mr. Holmes?”

“Listen. We will soon be dead. Do as I say . . . uh . . . don’t question . . . do you understand?”

“I understand.” The man’s voice was assured. He would obey.

“Is Millwood there?”

“Yes, she’s still unconscious.”

“Then rip the power cables from an electrical appliance. Apply the live wire to her temple.”

“Mr. Holmes?”

“Do it, man . . . otherwise you haul up two more corpses!”

Then came a wait of many moments. Indeed, a long time seemed to pass. I could no longer move. The shadowy presence coiled about the interior of the diving bell as if it were black smoke. We sagged on the bench, our heartbeats slowing all the time. Another moment passed, another nudge toward death. That shadow was also inside of us, impressing itself on the nerves of the heart.

All of a sudden, a woman’s piercing scream erupted from the earpiece of the telephone. Immediately, thereafter, Captain Smeaton thundered: “Damn you, man, I’ve done as you asked. But you’ve made me into a torturer!”

Instantly, the oppression of my cardiac system lifted. I breathed easily again.

Holmes was once more his vigorous self. “No, Captain. You are no torturer. You are our savior.”

I leaned toward the telephone in order to ask, “Is she alive?”

“Yes, Dr. Watson. In fact, the electrical shock has roused her.”

The black shadow in the cabin dissipated. I heaved a sigh of relief as I sensed that entity dispel its atoms into the surrounding waters. The diving bell gave a lurch. And it began to rise from the sea bed. The ocean turned lighter. Black gave way to purple, then to blue. Holmes, however, appeared to suddenly descend into an abyss of melancholy.

“We’re safe, Holmes. And the mystery is solved.”

He nodded.

“Then why, pray, are you so downcast?”

“Watson. I didn’t reveal the purpose of my trip to Cornwall. I came here to visit an old friend. You see, his six-year-old daughter is grievously ill. No, I am disingenuous to even myself. The truth of the matter is this: she is dying.”

“I am very sorry to hear that, Holmes. But how did that sad state of affairs bring you to investigate this case of the diving bell?”

“An act of desperation on my part.” He rested his fingertips together; his eyes became distant. “When I heard the seemingly miraculous story that a man had been rendered somehow immortal I raced here. It occurred to me that Barstow in his diving bell had stumbled upon a remarkable place on the ocean bed that had the power to keep death at bay.”

“And you came here for the sake of the little girl?”

“Yes, Watson, but what did I find? A woman who has the power to project a sick fantasy from her mind and cause murder. For a few short hours I had truly believed I might have a distinct chance of saving little Edith’s life. However . . . ” He gave a long, grave sigh. “Alas, Watson. Alas . . . ”

Simon Clark has been a professional author for more than fifteen years. When his first novel, Nailed by the Heart, made it through the slush pile in 1994 he banked the advance and embarked upon his dream of becoming a full-time writer. Many dreams and nightmares later he wrote the cult horror-thriller Blood Crazy, and other novels including Death’s Dominion, Vengeance Child, and The Night of the Triffids, which continues the story of John Wyndham’s classic The Day of the Triffids. Simon’s latest novel is a return to his much-loved Vampyrrhic mythology with His Vampyrrhic Bride. Simon lives with his family in the atmospheric, legend-haunted county of Yorkshire. His website is www.nailedbytheheart.com.