Sherlock Holmes: Cthulhu Mythos Adventures (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 2) (12 page)

“Quite extraordinary,” I breathed. “It’s hard to believe that in this age of telegraphic communication and the new incandescent lighting that there would still be such darkness in the world.”

“Old ways die hard, especially in Hammershire, which is one of the dark places of the Earth,” Lestrade remarked. “Even the most powerful arc lamp won’t reveal, much less banish, the evil that lurks in the hearts of men.”

I shuddered at the thought that the ways of civilization meant so little to people who had dwelled in these parts for generations beyond number, going back to the times when blood rolled down stone altars and men were burned in wicker cages. Once more I thought of the isolated cottages and farmhouses seen from the safety of the railway. What ancient ways did they still hold to, and what even darker ways would a man like Dean follow, ensconced in the dark bosom of the woods? I was pulled from my reverie by a slight sound from Holmes. I turned toward him.

“In the morning, I should like to speak to Ignatius Dean,” Holmes said. “And then perhaps have a look in and around his cottage. This case has many aspects that are…interesting.”

“I shall arrange it,” Lestrade said. I thought I detected a note of relief in his voice but I could not be sure. “Now that we have done this repast justice, I’ll take you to your rooms.”

I awoke in the deep in the night. I lay quietly in my bed, unsure of what had awakened me. Looking across the room, I saw Holmes was not in his bed. Earlier, I had left him in the sitting room, and supposed him still there, mulling over what Lestrade had told him, digesting the files he had been given. Though a dim light shone under the door, the air did not reek of Holmes’ shag, which he as a habit smoked furiously when presented with a knotty problem.

Pulling on my dressing gown, I hesitantly opened the door and peered in. The sitting room was vacant, the gas turned down as low as possible. It was just after three. No note indicated where Holmes might have gone at such an ungodly hour. Certainly the pub was long closed, and there was nowhere in sleepy Upper Orm one could go for entertainment or diversion, not that Holmes would have required either when engaged with a challenging case.

I opened the window overlooking the front area of the pub and stared into the vast night. Not a light shown in the street or in any of the cottages or shops. No one was about. There was no sound at all, not even the distant barking of dogs or the soft cries of animals one always expects in the country. The sky was bright with stars, such as it never is through the mist and smoke of the Great Metropolis.

Around the darkness of the village lay the deeper blackness of thick woodlands. Out there, somewhere, was the cottage in which generations of Deans had lived out their benighted lives, their only companions being the sons of wives no one could name, away from the light, surrounded by wooded antiquity.

I shuddered at the thoughts flitting through my mind. Though I pride myself upon being thoroughly grounded in science and logic, Holmes’ frequent gibes notwithstanding, I was nevertheless touched by the isolation, by the feeling that the past was crowding in, that centuries of brutality and ignorance only waited the proper moment to overwhelm this decaying bastion of civilization. The words of the priest came back to me. What I had initially dismissed as the mutterings of a country vicar steeped in the same superstitions as his flock now seemed a potent and existential warning.

My disturbing reverie was broken when a shadow detached itself from the  outer blackness. It darted across the common but vanished as quickly as it had appeared. I was still pondering what I had seen, or thought I had seen, when the door behind me opened quietly, then closed even more softly.

“Holmes,” I said. “Where in the blazes have you been?”

“Out and about,” he replied, tossing his hat upon a table and hanging his dark Inverness cloak upon a chair. He also placed on the table several books, all very old. “Here and there.”

“You will do as you will, as always, but you could have at least told me you were going out,” I said, sounding more snappish than I had intended. I looked at the antique books. “I cannot imagine Upper Orm home to any lending library or bookseller, especially not at this hour of the morning.”

“No, those were lent by an antiquarian of my acquaintance,” he explained. “There was no time to gather them before we departed London, but he rail-freighted them for a station drop.”

I knew the fellow he meant, a foppish dilettante for whom I did not care. “All that time to collect a dropped shipment?”

“The railway freight office was merely my last stop,” he said. “The station master was unusually accommodating, but, then, you may have noticed a distinct schism between generational villagers and those brought in from outside. He would not have exhibited such good humor had I been a native.”

“Where in the world could you go in a one-horse dorp like Upper Orm?” I demanded. “And for what reason?”

“I needed to observe the village, especially its outskirts, uncluttered by inhabitants,” Holmes said. He poured a measure of water into a bowl, dipped in a cloth and began to clean his face. I noticed some dirt and quite a few cuts and abrasions. “If you want to understand a place like Upper Orm, you have to see it in its natural habitat, bereft of people.”

“Here, give me that,” I said, taking the cloth from him. “Sit down. Well, wherever you’ve been, it seems you have had an adventure.” I carefully daubed the dirt away from his cuts. “And were you enlightened?”

“Very much so, Watson,” he replied. “I discovered the villagers tend to stay indoors once darkness settles fully.”

“Hardly surprising,” I remarked, reaching for my medical bag. “Except for the pub, what would draw them out?” I frowned as I recalled our arrival. “Though it did seem less patronized than I thought a local would be.”

“We saw people who live very near by,” Holmes explained. “Those away from the common were already home, and those in outlying farms manage to get home before dark.”

“Makes sense.” I wetted the cloth with a three-percent solution of carbolic acid and attended to the wounds. “I certainly would not want to be abroad at night. Unwholesome place, Holmes.”

“Your aversion is based purely upon emotional responses,” he said, flinching as the disinfectant worked to prevent any creeping morbidity. “But at least your feelings are a conscious decision, even if founded upon a bedrock of ignorance.”

“I don’t think it’s quite fair to…”

“The people of Upper Orm avoid the darkness because they have been conditioned to do so by parents who raised them to fear the night,” Holmes continued. “Their parents were reared in the same fashion, as were their parents. Generation upon generation, all raised to avoid the nighttime streets of a little village on the banks of the River Orm, in the midst of thick forests. At one time villagers understood the reason for caution, but now their lives follow the paths set before them simply because anything else feels wrong.”

“A wretched life, but what has it to do with the charges against Dean?” Finished, with Holmes’ wounds, I returned the solution to my bag. “And how did you come to be in such a state?”

“The beliefs that grip this village, which the take pains to hide from outsiders…”

“Such as PC Barnes and the Coroner?” I prompted.

“You have obviously never lived in a small English village,” Holmes observed. “England as a whole distrusts foreigners, and not without reason, but in a village as tiny and introspective as Upper Orm any person unable to trace his ancestry back at least five or six generations is an outsider.”

“Yes, I understand all that, Holmes,” I sighed. “But, again, what does any of that have to do with Dean, or, for that matter, the fact that you look as if you’ve been out brambling?”

“Yes, ‘brambling’ indeed,” Holmes said with a smirk. “I found myself a bit off the beaten path. So to speak.”

I gasped. “Really, Holmes, the area it is bad enough during the hours of light. And you’ve still not answered my questions.”

“Tomorrow we shall trek by day, immediately after I interview Dean,” Holmes replied. “Quint ventured into the woods, murder in his heart, both in revenge for Dean’s slight against him and to fulfill a need to strike at the evil Dean represented in Quint’s mind.”

“Superstitious rubbish!”

“In London it would be,” Holmes allowed. “But in a place like Upper Orm, old hatreds fester over the centuries, even older beliefs never quite vanish, and things that should have perished long ago endure because of those hatreds and beliefs.”

“Next, you’ll tell me Quint was killed by a Roman ghost.”

“Much too recent,” he murmured.

I sighed. “I can understand Quint attacked Dean because of a superstition, or Dean killed Quint because he was practicing pagan hoodoo. People kill often over gold calves—saw enough of that in Afghanistan—but belief does not make idols walk. Dean’s claim that the forest killed Quint is ridiculous. Lestrade should turn the case over to the Crown, let them decide whether Dean is fit to plead, and you have no business being out in the dark woods, stumbling about where you might get eaten by foxes or giant hounds.”

“Do not become overwrought, my dear fellow,” he said. “Get some rest. Later, a full breakfast will set you right.”

My outburst at that hour had drained me. I was weary unto death, and it was clear Holmes was not going to answer my questions. A few hours sleep and a breakfast would not change my outlook on this case, or Upper Orm.

“As a doctor, I prescribe rest for you.”

Holmes threw himself into a wingchair, turned up the gas, and reached for the books freighted by that young London fop.

“I have matters to consider,” he replied.

I sighed. There was no use appealing to Holmes’ sensibilities or self interests. From our long association I knew that once a case had taken his fancy, it was useless trying to divert him from it. Quite like trying to wrest a meaty bone from a hungry Mastiff, though I might have had more luck with the Mastiff.

I paused at the door to the bedroom. “Holmes, exactly what
did
happen to you out there in the dark?”

He glanced up from the books, a little slyly I thought. For a moment, he seemed on the verge of sharing some confidence, but his lips curved into the thinnest of smiles.

“Did you go to Dean’s cottage?”

“Good night, Watson.”

Only when I smelled the comforting stink of Holmes’ shag tobacco did I slip into a light sleep, troubled by dreams of shadows, deeps woods, and things that refused to die.

Before we were conducted to the constabulary, where two cells usually sufficed to hold the village’s rowdy drinkers, Lestrade took us to a small storage room. We were shown the bloody clothing still worn by Dean nearly a week after Quint’s death. The stains were dark and smelled coppery in the closeness of the room. Holmes gave them a thorough examination.

My first sight of Ignatius Dean was startling, despite Lestrade’s description of his size and mental state. He towered over Holmes, himself tall, but he slouched in a lethargic way, his spine nearly curving into an ‘S’ shape. His arms were abnormally long and thickly muscled. It was easy to imagine him casually throwing a man into a horse trough, even a man who matched him pound for pound. His hands were bony and knotted, and while I could not believe him capable of working iron into a horseshoe, I could see him bending one with little effort. His features were coarse, like a clay caricature only half formed by an unskilled sculptor. His lips were thick, his cheekbones protrusive, and his ears broad and slightly pointed. His hair was full and long, flowing back like the mane of some animal, the sides of his head shaggy. With such a head of hair, I would not have been surprised by a full beard, but there were only a few scraggly hairs dangling from his chin. His eyes were black, seemingly without pupils, and the whites were tinged yellowish, as if suffering from severe icterus, though he showed no other symptoms of jaundice.

He was brutish, to be sure, but looking at him I was uncertain about his intelligence. He stood by the cell’s single small window, staring out, but immediately shifted his head in our direction when he entered. His eyes tracked us, as would those of a wary animal.

“Who’re ye?” His voice was low, soft, almost a growl.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend Doctor Watson,” he explained. “We’ve come up from London to see you.”

A ripple passed through his body that might have been a shrug.

“I am a detective,” Holmes said. “I might be able to…”

“Don’t want to talk wi’ ye. Get ye away.”

“I think it would be in your best interest to talk to us.”

“Go ‘way, ye bleedin’ toffs!” Dean growled in the broad accent peculiar to Hammershire.

“Show a civil tongue, Sunshine!” the jailer snapped.

“If you would, please leave us alone with Mr Dean,” Holmes suggested to Lestrade and the jailer.

“Not with a murderer, Mr Holmes!” the jailer cried.

Lestrade frowned at the jailer’s outburst, but added: “I really do not think it is a good idea, Holmes.”

“Everything will be fine,” Holmes assured the men. “I will take full responsibility.”

Between their expressions of doubt and disbelief and Dean’s murderous glower, I questioned the wisdom of being alone with such a man, guilty or not. I was not fearful of the man, but I was wary of the beast within. Lestrade and the jailer departed.