Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone (24 page)

I shook my head and declared, “I have read of such things in cheap romances, but I never thought a real flesh-and-blood woman might do such a thing. What do you think, Holmes?”

He was lost in thought, distant and worried. “I do not suppose a real woman would, Watson.”

“But the important thing,” Munro continued, “is that she didn’t tell me
why
she needed one hundred pounds. We had never kept secrets before. I tried to put it out of my mind, but over the following weeks the thought would return and vex me. What could she be keeping from me? But then, the day before yesterday, I had another shock that almost chased it from my mind. My home is in Norbury. On our lane is a little cottage, which had been vacant since we moved in, but which had just begun to show signs of life. As I passed the cottage that night, I cast my eyes up at it, wondering who my new neighbors might be and when I should call upon them. Just then I saw… the thing…”

Here he stopped and wrung his hands for a few moments. With no trace of judgment or humor, Holmes asked, “What kind of thing?”

“Silly. So silly to say… It was only a face—a man’s face, I think—but there was something about it, Mr. Holmes. It seemed… false somehow. It was rigid and… well, I cannot describe just what was wrong with it, but as I beheld it I had the feeling that it had come for me from a long, long way away and I would never be free of it. Well, I ran right home to tell Effie all about it—”

“F.E.?” Holmes interjected.

“Yes. My wife—Effie.”

“You married a Final Edition? Cad! Sorcerer! Anthromancer! Get away from him, Watson!”

At this, Holmes rolled out of his armchair, crashing to the floor. His left hand groped towards the fireplace until it chanced across the coal scuttle, which Holmes snatched up and flung at our guest, scattering bouncing pieces of coal across half the sitting room.

“Holmes!”

“I… I don’t understand!” cried Munro. “Have I said something wrong? Effie is only a name—my wife’s name!”

“Not a particularly uncommon one, I think you’ll find,” I added, raising a warning eyebrow.

Holmes would not be soothed. “But think of the creature he describes, Watson! She is totally devoted to her mate! Devoid of free will, she dedicates all her effort, all she owns and
all she is
to her husband, without reserve. You yourself doubted that a real woman would do such a thing, Watson. You are right! You asked whether—given the chance to design their ideal mate—men would not create exactly such a creature. Don’t you see? They did!”

“Holmes is possessed of a magnificent imagination,” I told Munro.

“Anthromancers,” Holmes continued, contorting his hands into disgusted claws, “lonely malefactors—twisted creators of the saddest creatures that live. No woman would touch such a dark practitioner, Watson, so they turned their forbidden arts to the creation of one that would! The first generation was easy to spot; they had rubber skin. The Nexus Twos were halting automatons with immobile smiles they had no power to change. The Nexus Fours were simple pleasure models, but the Sixes were an impressive achievement. Just before their cabal broke up, the anthromancers produced a few Final Edition Nexus Sixes, capable of giving them their deepest, most chilling desire—heirs.”

“I apologize for my friend…”

“He is a wicked sorcerer, Watson!”

“But I am not!” Munro protested. “I am a simple hop merchant!”

“Hops?” Holmes roared. “What are those? Are they vile?”

“They are plants, sir, used in the brewing of beer.”

“Huh… Is that all?” said Holmes, visibly confused. “Well… beer is slightly vile, I suppose. You are sure you’re not a sorcerer?”

“Preposterous,” said Munro.

“I could have sworn…” mumbled Holmes, returning to his chair.

Realizing the time was ripe for me to regain control, I said, “Regardless of my friend’s wild theories, I am curious to know how Effie reacted to the news about this rigid face.”

“She told me I was being silly and must not be worried by such things. Yet she was much disturbed by the news. She seemed near tears all through dinner, but I could not draw the cause of this anxiety from her. When we went to bed that night, she did not sleep. Eventually I nodded off, but I am sure Effie lay still awake. I was unsettled and slept lightly. I awoke around three in the morning, to find Effie just removing her cloak. She smelled of cold night air and I could tell in an instant she had been outside.

“‘Wherever have you gone?’ I asked her.

“‘Only to take a walk along the lane,’ said she, then paused and added, ‘Grant, I may need more money.’

“Well, I was very interested to know why she had suddenly begun the habit of walking the lane at night and what had occurred there to convince her she needed funds. She would not tell me. She said she
could
not—that she was bound by promises that pre-dated the ones she had made to me and which she had no power to break. She enjoined me not to worry and said that, if I did as she said, our happiness need not be interrupted. Well, that set me in a highly worried state and I pleaded with her until the dawn to tell me what was happening. She would not be moved and so, as the sun began to rise, I climbed from our bed to begin my work day.”

“You must have been exhausted,” said Holmes.

“I was, but more than that, I was distracted. As I passed the cottage, I noticed lights in the downstairs window and a shadow upon the curtain. I had the feeling that whatever was bothering Effie might have to do with the new occupants. Since they were up, I resolved to meet them. I went up to the door and knocked. In a moment there was a bustling, then the door opened to reveal a… how shall I describe her… a tough old battleaxe of a woman. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, stern and with little time for interruptions, but what stood out about her were her injuries.”

“Injuries?” said I.

“Yes. She had a tremendous bruise on her neck that ran down under her collar. One arm hung limp and seemingly useless. And her face! She had the most magnificently scratched face—as if she had just lost an argument with a jaguar. She stared at me, but said nothing.

“‘Hello,’ I said, ‘I am your neighbor, Mr. Grant Munro. I just wanted to stop by and welcome you to the neighborhood. If there is anything you require while you are settling in—’

“But she cut me off! She said, ‘We’ll call if we need ya,’ in the most horrible American drawl and shut the door, right in my face. As I trudged back down the path to the lane, I turned back and saw the man again at the upstairs window. I was closer this time, so I just made out a pencil-thin moustache and slick black hair, but again, it seemed rigid and immobile to me.”

“Could you tell the age of this man?” I asked.

“No,” said Munro. “I only remember dwelling on how unnaturally white and shining his skin seemed. He was at the window only a moment, then disappeared. I don’t mind telling you, gentlemen: I was distraught. I did not go to work, but instead to the local inn, where I took a little food and an early draught. I sat and pondered what I should do. Soon it was almost lunchtime and I had no stratagem. I elected to simply head back and ask Effie what she knew of the cottage’s occupants.

“I made my way back home, but when I got there, Effie was gone! The maid looked affrighted to see me. When I asked her where Effie was, she said her mistress was taking the air and would be back presently. She then got me settled in my chair with a warm cup of tea and asked me to wait. I found myself too anxious to comply, so I stood and began to pace. When I passed the window, what should I see but our maid, hastily running down the lane towards the cottage! I realized Effie must have gone there and set the maid to warn her if I returned home. I set out after her, but by the time I had my shoes and coat on, she had already reached the cottage. When I got there, I did not knock or wait for entry. I flung open the door and stepped inside, resolved to confront my wife, my maid, the scratched-up crone and the strange man in the upstairs room.”

“Did you?” asked Holmes, leaning forward as the tale quickened. He was practically at the edge of his seat.

“No! There was nobody there! No one! I ran to the upstairs room and found it empty. It was in a terrible state and I could hardly believe anybody would be living there, but on the windowsill I found a photograph in a silver frame. It was a portrait of Effie, which I had commissioned only three months before!”

“Sorcery! Witchcraft!” cried Holmes.

“No, it isn’t,” I said. “Think, Holmes: if Effie does indeed have dealings with the strange new neighbors, might she not have taken the picture over herself?”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well, you should have. This fact is far from supernatural, but it does prove two things. First: Mr. Munro is right and his wife’s recent disturbance is tied to the appearance of the new neighbors.”

“Second?” asked Mr. Munro, eager for any relief of his anxiety.

“That whoever resides in the upstairs room knows Effie well enough to desire a picture of her. I have begun to form a theory, but I would like to hear the rest of Mr. Munro’s tale before I speak of it. Pray, continue.”

“Well, I suspected they must have escaped out the back door as I approached the front,” said Munro, “so I ran out after them, towards the woods. As I neared, who should emerge but Effie herself.

“‘Grant, you must not go in there,’ said she. ‘If you do, all our happiness is ruined. Please, just a little more time and more money and we can live untroubled.’

“I tried to push past her, but she blocked my path and threw me back. I tried again, but she threw me—bodily threw me—away from the woods. We were both in tears at that point and I stumbled clear. I did not know what to do, Mr. Holmes. I wandered. Eventually I found my way here. I have not seen my home or my wife since yesterday afternoon and I cannot guess as to their state.”

“Guessing will not be necessary, Mr. Munro. The light of reason shall reveal all,” I said. “Now, I wonder if you could tell me more about Effie’s past. You said she was a widow when you met her?”

“Yes. She had a husband, back in America, and a daughter too, sadly. Sad, I say, because they both died of yellow fever.”

“I see. And this husband, what do you know of him?”

“Well… his name was Hebron—Octavius Hebron.”

“An unusual name,” I noted.

“Perfect for an anthromancer…”

“Holmes, shut up. Please continue, Mr. Munro.”

“Well… Effie always speaks well of him, but every time a conversation turns his way, she spends half her time making excuses for his behavior. It embarrasses me to speak ill of him, for I still enjoy the fruits of his investments, but I think he treated Effie quite badly and if I had the chance to meet him, I would like to bloody his nose.”

“Have you ever seen proof of this husband?” I asked. “Either his life, his death or his marriage to Effie?”

“I have multiple stocks with his name and signature, a copy of the marriage certificate—by which right Effie claims the funds of his investments—as well as a birth certificate for their child and a death certificate for Hebron himself.”

“And you believe these documents to be genuine?” I asked.

“Well, there is one discrepancy,” said Munro, rubbing his chin. “Though Hebron’s death certificate lists yellow fever as the cause, Effie says it is not correct. She once told me that that diagnosis was only arrived at because of the yellowed color of his body, but that he had actually died in childbirth.”

“He?” I asked.

“Yes. He. Hebron.”

“And what aspect of childbirth, Mr. Munro, do you suppose might be fatal to the father?”

Munro shrugged and said, “Well I don’t know, do I? You are the doctor. I know nothing of what goes on in the birthing room and—let me tell you—now that I know what became of Octavius Hebron, I am even less likely to wander into one to find out!”

“In that, you show your wisdom, sir,” said I. “As a medical doctor, I can tell you that the birthing room is no place for a husband. Having the father present destroys marriages. He who can walk out of a birthing room with any shred of desire left for his wife is the same man who can walk out of a slaughterhouse hungry for a steak. Many of my medical contemporaries lament that Elizabeth Blackwell or any of her sex were ever granted a medical degree, but I am firmly of the opinion that we need more lady doctors, as fast as they can be trained. Let the schools be filled with them! Let them take over the job of birthing and let us male doctors wash our hands of it—and we would wash them thoroughly indeed. We would scrub and scrub. We would heave a collective sigh of relief heard round the world and thank our gods that the womenfolk were now left in sole possession of their own secrets—those sticky, stinking, screaming, bleeding, pushing, howling, juicy secrets which…”

I became aware of Holmes and Munro staring at me.

“Ahem… Well… I have digressed, gentlemen, but the fact is clear: as a medical doctor I can confidently state that no danger to the life of the father is posed by the act of childbirth. Octavius Hebron’s cause of death is false. His death certificate is false. And I feel sufficiently sure to say his death itself is false. Mr. Munro, I believe him to be alive and seeking to reclaim his fortune from your wife.”

“By God!” Munro shouted. “That would explain it all!”

“Would it?” said Holmes. “I just don’t see it, Watson.”

“Holmes, how can you not? We know from the photograph that the person in that cottage has a personal relationship with Effie. We know that Mr. Hebron’s death certificate is patently false. Ah! A thought occurs! What if Octavius Hebron conferred his own name on a stillborn child? Thus, the child’s death would result in a death certificate in Hebron’s name! Let us also remember the sometimes-fatal condition of jaundice, which is common in newborns and results in a marked yellowing of the skin. Effie says she is bound to her mysterious antagonist by promises older than those she made to Mr. Munro, suggesting her previous vows of fidelity to a first husband. We know that she tried to throw money at this person in the hope that they would go away and she has hinted to Mr. Munro that she intends to do it again. This jibes well with the notion that her tormentor is indeed Octavius Hebron. Since she is in possession of his thousands, he is unlikely to settle for such a paltry sum as Effie first delivered. The situation obviously causes her some distress, as she has twice expressed that she wishes this episode resolved so that she and Mr. Munro may be happy together.”