Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone (27 page)

“The floor?”

“Yes. You may be unaware of this, Holmes, but proper English ladies will often ask for a quiet place to compose themselves. Once installed, the constriction of their undergarments often causes them to faint.”

“I did not know that.”

“Well, it would be of little concern, but if she happens to fall in a posture that makes breathing even more difficult, that whalebone corset may prove to be the end of her.”

“Ha! That is a silly way to die, don’t you think?” laughed Holmes.

“Is it? Then why do you suppose it is so very popular?”

I strained to hear if our guest was still on her feet, but presently she ran some water in the basin and I knew her to still be conscious. Warlock gestured me over to him to make a confession.

“I don’t even know why she’s here, Watson.”

“She needs help, can’t you see?”

“But
our
help?” said Warlock. “I told you of the brimstone thread once, do you remember? How it moves through the tapestry of life, crossing one strand, then the next?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Like cloth, reality moves in distinct patterns, Watson. As such, threads that cross the brimstone must bear some proximity to one another. I myself… how shall I say… I run parallel to the brimstone thread and right along it. Thus, the people who come to me for help usually do so because they—like me—have encountered the brimstone thread more than once. Their problems tend to be ones that can only be addressed by those who have become accustomed to the mystic and the weird.”

“What is your point, Holmes?”

“As yet, Miss Stoner has given no indication that her troubles are… unusual. There seems to be no particular reason she has been brought to me as opposed to, say, Scotland Yard. Should we ask her to leave?”

“Certainly not! Did you see her left arm, Holmes?”

“She’s wearing a long-sleeved dress.”

“Yes, and even so, it is clear that her left forearm curves notably away from her body. Did you observe her shoes?”

“Erm… they’re black?”

“Immaterial. What is important is that the soles are of differing thicknesses. One of her legs is shorter than the other, yet she claims to have suffered none of the bone-deforming illnesses that haunt our age.”

“So?”

“So, at some point, her left arm has been broken and she received no medical care for it. Likewise, her left leg—I am guessing her left femur at the distal epiphyseal plate—was broken in her youth, severely enough that it never grew to its proper length. From the little she’s told us so far, I have to presume that this stepfather of hers is to blame. The man is a monster, Holmes!”

“Ah. Well, she’d better stay, then.”

“Quite,” said I and walked back towards our bathroom door to check on our guest. I had taken no more than two steps before I recalled to whom I had been speaking and turned back to say, “Not a
proper
monster.”

“No?” said Holmes; he looked disappointed.

“It is only a figure of speech. I mean that I presume him to be a normal man whose behavior is abominable. I say this to you now, because I don’t want you to sulk if it turns out he isn’t a minotaur or something.”

Holmes gave me a sour look, but nodded his agreement. Soon, the click of the bathroom lock gave me to believe our guest was returning. She stepped back into the sitting room, calmer and more collected than she had been.

“I’m sorry,” said she. “I’m not even sure why I came here.”

“I know! Neither am I,” said Holmes. “It’s funny, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps I should just return home to Stoke Moran and forget this—”

She didn’t finish. I’m sure if he could have made it to his feet, Holmes would have been on them. He shouted, “Stoke
what
?”

“Moran?” I said.

“Yes. Stoke Moran. That is our home. It was one of the great houses of Surrey once, but now it’s gone to wrack and ruin.”

“And one may presume the house is named for the family that established it?” I asked.

“It is,” Miss Stoner said. “The Roylott side of the family has had it for a generation or two, but the house was traditionally held by the Morans.”

“
That’s
why she’s here,” Warlock declared. “I knew there must be a reason.”

“Do you know if any of these relatives might be named Sebastian Moran?” I asked.

“A few, I think. Sebastian is a common name, out our way.”

“May one also presume that Dr. Roylott is far from the only member of the family with a sour reputation?”

“One may indeed,” Miss Stoner agreed, “though I think few of the locals would put it so delicately. The Morans have been hated for generations.”

“If your stepfather is anything like the Moran I know, he is a formidable gentleman indeed,” said Warlock.

“Perhaps. I’ve never met any of them, apart from Dr. Roylott,” Miss Stoner said, shrugging.

“Pray, let it continue to be so,” I muttered. “But let us return to your unfinished tale, Miss Stoner. You have not yet spoken of the reason behind your fear. Why do you suppose yourself to be in mortal danger?”

“The timing of my sister’s death… and the strangeness of it. You see, she had just become engaged when she died. I thought my stepfather’s famous temper would have been woken, for the existence of what little remains of Stoke Moran is reliant upon my sister’s and my inheritance. So long as we live with Dr. Roylott, he is steward of those funds. In the event of marriage, the inheritance would, of course, have followed Julia and her groom.”

“Yet Dr. Roylott was not troubled by her engagement?” I asked.

“No. In fact, he took pains to make himself cordial to both Julia and her fiancé. We half fancied he had undertaken a campaign to ingratiate himself to them and was intending to cajole from them the funds he needed to maintain the house. Julia and I were speaking of it on the night she died…”

Here Miss Stoner paused to collect herself, for the tears had come again. Presently she told us, “We were in my bedroom. The night was early; the sun had only just set. She complained about her own room. It was stuffy, she said. The window could not open far because of the bars and the vent brought no comfort—no fresh air but only the stench of Dr. Roylott’s cigars and his horrid animals.”

“Animals?” I asked.

“Yes. Roylott had his practice in India.”

“So did I, almost.”

“He was forced to leave it when—in an altercation over some stolen silverware—he beat his native butler to death.”

“You know, Watson,” Warlock noted, “he does sound an awful lot like Sebastian Moran.”

Miss Stoner continued, “When he came back, he brought a monkey, a cheetah and a box of trained cobras. The snakes are confined to his room, but the monkey and the cheetah have their freedom to wander the grounds, so Julia and I had bars upon our windows and we locked our doors at night. Julia made such complaint of her room that night that I offered to share my bed with her, as we used to when we were little. She said no, she would sleep in her own bed and stop being silly. But she asked me if I ever heard noises coming from my vent, sometimes.”

“Do you?” I interjected.

“Naught but wind and rain, as you would expect. Yet Julia said she often heard a rasping, a sort of metallic bang and the sound of soft chanting, deep in the darkest hours of night. I thought it only fancy, but it seemed to disturb her. Well, finally she took her leave of me and went back to her room. I don’t know what time it was—it must have been some time after nine, maybe ten in the evening. I only saw her one more time after that. At two o’clock she came back.”

“To your room?”

“Yes. I was awoken by the rattle of my doorknob and a scratching on my door. At first I was afraid it was the monkey, but in the confused noises, I recognized Julia’s voice.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing that could be understood. She sounded frantic, at first. But by the time I had risen and opened the door, she seemed quite calm. She stood in my doorway, staring straight ahead, tilting on her heels as if dizzy or drunk. She didn’t even look at me. Then she said, ‘The _eckled _and,’ and then… and then…”

“What happened, Miss Stoner?”

“Her eyes—they shrank.”

“
Shrank
?”

“Yes, back inside her head, like two rotten grapes. Then all her skin fell off.”

“What?”

“Yes, all upon the rug in a great heap. She was only muscle and bone. She stood there for a moment, trying to say something—it sounded like ‘the _eckled _and’ again—and then her muscles fell away and her skeleton collapsed down on the whole pile of it all. That was the end of her. That is how she died.”

“Disgusting!” Warlock declared, though his tone of admiration was unmistakable.

“And, gentlemen, I fear I shall end the same way,” Miss Stoner continued, “for now—through fortune I scarce dared to hope for—my neighbor Mr. Greymalkin has asked my hand. The wording of Mother’s will is such that if I do wed, not only my share of the inheritance will follow me, but Julia’s share as well. Without those monies to support them, Stoke Moran and Dr. Roylott must fall into abject poverty. Yet he did not protest. My stepfather only offered his congratulations and immediately began work on Stoke Moran.”

“What sort of work?” I asked.

“Stone work of some sort. I’m not sure the exact nature of it, but it has made my room uninhabitable. Dr. Roylott insists I stay in Julia’s chamber, that very chamber where she was stricken to death—or so I suppose. Oh, I didn’t want to go of course, but Dr. Roylott is… possessed of a most convincing character and I must admit that I spent last night sleeping in my dead twin’s bed.”

Even more palpable than my sympathy for Helen Stoner was the swell of hatred I felt for Grimesby Roylott. If any chance remained that I might forgive him, Miss Stoner removed it when she burst into fresh tears and said, “And what should I hear last night, in the depths of darkness? I heard the metallic rasp! I heard the banging! I heard the chants! Oh, I could not stay, gentlemen! I fled to the pantry and hid until first light, then made my way here. But I am to return, don’t you see? He expects me to sleep there tonight! I don’t know if I can face it again! What should I do? Oh, what should I do?”

Holmes digested the question for a few moments then said in slow, thoughtful tones, “Well… I can’t put my finger on exactly why, but… I don’t know… it just seems inadvisable to sleep there. What do you think, Watson?”

“Holmes! Of course she shall not sleep there! She will not play meekly into this villain’s hands! Shame on you for considering it! No, Miss Stoner, here is what I propose: you go back to Stoke Moran and pretend that nothing unusual has occurred. This afternoon Holmes and I will…”

But my eye fell across the immovable carcass of my friend and I amended my statement to, “Well… at least one of us will come there to examine the room and formulate a strategy to save you from this mischief.”

“Hear, hear!” Holmes proclaimed.

“Could you? Oh, could you?” Miss Stoner cried, alight with new hope. “We have not discussed payment yet and my stepfather controls the finances, but once I am wed…”

“Let us just consider it an early wedding gift, shall we?” I said. “Expect me by train this afternoon. I presume the house is set back from the road?”

She nodded. “There is a long drive up to the house. Do watch out for the cheetah. And the monkey.”

I gulped. “Try to watch the main road to intercept me and keep my arrival a secret from Dr. Roylott. I shall see you in a few hours, Miss Stoner. Until then, be of good cheer; this world yet contains justice and the hearts of men are not so hard as to turn away from a lady in need. You will be safe, I swear it.”

I ushered her out, bid her farewell and went back upstairs to dress for the country and check my pistol. I had just set about clearing away our teacups when Mrs. Hudson’s voice rang out from the floor below us, screaming in protest. A moment later, I heard heavy steps on the stairs then our front door fell in with a sudden crash. The hinges bent and failed; the lock splintered the doorframe as it was forced into our sitting room. In the doorway stood an angry, red-faced giant of a man with Mrs. Hudson dangling from his left sleeve, still trying to arrest his rampage. I was sure her collection of illicit novels must have offered no end of tips on how to wrestle men to the ground. Also certain was that she had been eagerly awaiting the chance to put these ideas into practice. She didn’t look pleased with the way things were going, however. Our monstrous guest paid no heed whatsoever to the struggling septuagenarian clinging to his arm.

“Warlock Holmes!” the trespasser cried. “Which of you is Warlock Holmes?”

Warlock began to screech out terrified, high-pitched wails, contorting his body as violently as he could in an attempt either to stand or simply to wiggle under the sofa. I stood my ground and assessed the invader.

His shoulders were impossibly broad. Compared to his vast torso, his legs were small and bowed outwards from the strain of supporting so heavy a load. He wore a red frock coat, a pale yellow scarf and a top hat. His right eye clutched a monocle with such force I thought the glass would shatter. He had cultivated a magnificent ginger moustache, the tips of which quivered as he raged. The overall effect was one of a furious, steroid-riddled circus ringmaster. Yet, the family resemblance was obvious—he was certainly related to Sebastian Moran. In fact, I think if Moran and Grogsson could somehow be made to have a child together, the resultant monstrosity would exactly resemble Dr. Grimesby Roylott.

“What a quaint method of knocking our country cousins have,” I said. “No wonder they find themselves impoverished. They must spend a fortune on doors.”

“What are you doing?” Holmes squeaked.

In truth, I was baiting Dr. Roylott. He was a frightening specimen and I might have lacked the courage, if it were not for the fact that I had my hand resting on the handle of my service revolver. Some men find courage in a bottle, but I keep mine in my coat pocket.

“Where is my stepdaughter?” Roylott roared. “I know she has been here! Has she been here? Has she?”

“How should I know? We have not been properly introduced,” I said.