Sherlock Holmes and the Christmas Demon Page 4

  “Had you told anyone about the twigs you found the previous day?”

  “No. I hadn’t thought it worth mentioning. I was a little ashamed by my reaction, to be honest, and was rather hoping to forget the whole incident. Moreover, if the culprits were children from Yardley Cross, as I believed, I did not want to get them in trouble. My father would take it greatly amiss, and would probably go out and horsewhip them the next time he saw them. However, the sight of another set of birch twigs in my brother’s hand utterly undid me. Even as Raz and Papa exchanged words hotly – one adamant that somebody had placed the twigs outside his window, the other adamant that such a thing was impossible – I found myself in a sort of partial faint, feeling at one remove from all the fuss and vexation around me. I must have said something, because all at once I realised that every pair of eyes at the table was fixed upon me. ‘What’s that, Eve?’ Uncle Shadrach said.”

  “Uncle Shadrach?” said Holmes. “Would this be the same uncle you mentioned a moment ago? The one who goes shooting with your father?”

  “Yes. Papa’s younger brother. He is resident at Fellscar, along with his wife Olivia, their daughter Kitty and her husband Fitzhugh.”

  “Thank you. Proceed.”

  “Erasmus answered Shadrach’s question for me. ‘Eve uttered the words “the Black Thurrick”,’ he said. ‘I distinctly heard her. And in truth, that had not occurred to me, but now I see it. Yes. My goodness. These are birch twigs. Who else leaves a bundle of birch twigs outside a house but the Black Thurrick?’ There was a discomfited frown on his face. Raz remembered as well as I did Mama’s stories and was reliving the eerie dread those tales had engendered in us.

  “‘The Black Thurrick?’ my father ejaculated. ‘What preposterousness is this? Everyone knows that’s just superstitious claptrap! Give me that.’ So saying, he snatched the bundle of twigs from my brother’s grasp, strode over to the fire and tossed it onto the flames. Twigs and string burned to cinders in a trice.

  “As you may imagine, I was thoroughly discombobulated throughout the rest of that day. No longer could I pretend to myself that this was the handiwork of children. Some other agency was involved, and if not the Black Thurrick, then what?

  “The next morning, I went to my study. I am fortunate enough to have a little room of my own where I keep my books and where, when the mood takes me, I write poetry at my desk. It is my refuge. On that day, however, its sanctity was breached, for when I got there I discovered, to my horror, that there was a bundle of twigs perched on the window ledge, just as there had been outside Erasmus’s bedroom.

  “I’m not embarrassed to admit that I screamed. Erasmus heard and came running. I was beside myself with fear. He held me until my shudders subsided, uttering soothing words in my ear, but I could tell that he, too, was alarmed. Plucking up his courage, he opened the casement and shoved the bundle of twigs off the ledge with a sweep of his hand. They tumbled into the snowdrift below the window, vanishing from view.

  “I told Erasmus about the first bundle of twigs I had found by the gate. ‘Three times, now, Raz,’ I said. ‘Three times birch twigs have been left at the castle. Who is doing this to us? Who hates us so much that they would conduct this sinister campaign?’

  “‘I do not know, Eve,’ replied he. ‘But one thing is certain. It is not the Black Thurrick. There is no Black Thurrick.’ He did not sound any too convinced by his own statement, however, and I was little comforted.

  “I remained in a feverish state all day and, fearing I would not sleep that night, took chloral hydrate at bedtime. I dropped off straight away, but then at some point during the small hours I snapped wide awake. Moonlight was streaming in through the window, bright enough almost to read by. I realised I had fallen asleep so swiftly that I had neglected to close the curtains. I got out of bed to remedy the oversight. As I began drawing the curtains, movement outside caught my eye.

  “My bedroom, Mr Holmes, faces outward from the castle. It has a triple aspect, the main set of windows looking northward over the lake. Currently the lake is frozen over. Did I mention that?”

  “You did not,” said Holmes. “Now I am the wiser.”

  “Upon its icy white expanse, I spied a figure. A spindly, dark figure, picking its way across the frozen surface. A figure bent almost double, with a heavy sack upon its back.”

  Miss Allerthorpe’s voice lowered to a hush.

  “Mr Holmes,” she said. “I knew, in that moment, just what I was looking at. It could surely be none other than the Black Thurrick itself.”

  Chapter Four

  AN ARCHETYPAL PETRARCHAN SONNET

  Miss Allerthorpe paused briefly before resuming her account. I took the opportunity to help myself to some of the brandy, for restorative purposes. Holmes observed the action with a wry smirk. He might not have been unnerved by the events being related to us, but I certainly was.

  “Tell me more about this figure, Miss Allerthorpe,” he said. “In which direction was it travelling?”

  “Away from the castle, towards the north shore of the lake,” came the reply.

  “So you did not see its face?”

  “I did, and I did not.”

  “Elucidate.”

  “As I watched, the thing turned round to look back towards the castle. It was only a brief backward glance, but enough to reveal that its face had no features, save for eyes. The eyes shone bright, seeming almost to glow, but the rest was just empty blackness. It was then that I knew, once and for all, that it could not be any man. It must be the Thurrick.

  “Onward it went, while I, trembling, rooted to the spot, could only stare. Then, gathering myself, I flung the curtains shut and scurried back to bed. The effects of the sleeping draught must still have been in my system, for though my blood was racing and my thoughts were a terrified whirl, I fell asleep again soon enough. When I awoke the next morning, it was late, nearly ten o’clock. I came to a hasty decision. I had to leave Fellscar Keep. I could not abide at the castle an hour longer. I packed a bag and ordered the coachman to take me to Bridlington station, where I caught the York train and thence to London. I have been in the capital for three days now, staying with friends in Primrose Hill, and only today have I felt even close to rational again.”

  “I trust your family know you are here, safe and sound,” I said.

  “They do. I have wired them to that effect.”

  “But do they know what precipitated your abrupt departure?” asked Holmes.

  “I have mentioned nothing to them about seeing the Black Thurrick. They are under the impression that I have come down for a couple of days to do some Christmas shopping. It wasn’t until today, however, that I was able to stir myself to go out and face the crowds in the West End. That is how I chanced upon the two of you, and now here I am. I have told you everything that has befallen me. You know the predicament I am in. The only question that remains is will you help me, Mr Holmes?”

  “No,” said Holmes.

  Miss Allerthorpe was understandably crestfallen, as was I.

  “No?” she said.

  “No. We will help you. That is, Watson and I. Provided, of course, Watson, that you can take time away from your practice.”

  “My caseload is invariably heavy at this time of year, what with all the seasonal maladies,” I said, “but arrangements can be made. How is your caseload, Holmes?”

  “Comparatively light. There is the problem of the disappearance of the butcher’s apprentice at Smithfield Market, but I am confident that that has none of the gruesome connotations the rumours ascribe to it. Indeed the matter should resolve itself within a day or so, regardless of my involvement, and the outcome will be positive for all concerned. As to the perplexing affair of the Conte di Ruspoli and the vanishing hansom, it is a case of mistaken identity, nothing more. I will send my notes to Gregson or, failing that, Athelney Jones. Either of those doughty bloodhounds will be adequate to the task of following the case through to its conclusion. The business of the
Bishop of Chichester and his collection of rare Amazonian butterflies is more worrisome, but I strongly doubt there will be a second attempt at a burglary, the first having been so successfully averted by our cleric-cum-lepidopterist’s bull terrier. What about your wife?”

  “What about her?”

  “You will need to square things with Mrs Watson, I am sure. Your absence so close to Christmas will not, I imagine, be welcome.”

  “I shall talk to Mary. She is usually amenable when it comes to my accompanying you on an investigation. She has family coming over on Christmas Day. Provided I am home by then, to do my part as host, all should be well.”

  “And I,” said Holmes, “have no plans of my own. On the whole I find Christmas fatuous and tawdry. I would rather do something – anything – else.”

  “Oh, thank you!” Eve Allerthorpe exclaimed. “Thank you, both.”

  Holmes raised an admonitory forefinger. “I am minded to think, Miss Allerthorpe, that you require the services of a priest more than you do those of a consulting detective. I have still to be convinced that a crime has been committed, or that there is any danger of such. Yet there remain elements to the case that pique my interest. What are your immediate plans?”

  “I intend to return to Primrose Hill, to my friends, then journey back up north first thing in the morning.”

  “Excellent. Watson and I will follow on a later train. That will give you a chance to forewarn your family of our impending arrival and prepare the ground for us.”

  The young woman gathered up her belongings. I escorted her downstairs to the hallway.

  She was on the point of leaving by the front door when, seemingly on a whim, she fetched her notebook out from her pocket. She opened it, rifled through to the page she was looking for, and tore out the sheet.

  “For you,” she said, folding up the piece of paper and handing it to me. “A poem. I wrote it at the coffee house, while summoning up the courage to approach you and Mr Holmes. When I am in a dilemma, or ill at ease, it often helps to set my thoughts and feelings down in verse form. It gives them an outlet, and crystallises them. I should like you to read the poem, but not until I have departed. I am shy about showing my work to anyone, but more so to a distinguished author such as yourself.”

  The door opened. The door closed. Miss Eve Allerthorpe was gone.

  I unfolded the piece of paper, upon which I found the following handwritten lines of verse:

  Ode to a Potential Saviour

  When all the world lies cold and empty white

  And yet most folk have cause to feel glad,

  My poor, drab, winter-matching heart is sad.

  My suff’ring soul lacks will to rise and fight.

  Evil stalks – a dark-faced, loathsome sprite

  Whose presence brings offence to lass and lad.

  I am sore-taxed and very nearly mad,

  A bird with no safe bough whereon to light.

  But here in mazy streets, ’mid giddy throng,

  At last it seems that fickle fate turns kind.

  There is yet one who might assuage my strife.

  With handsome friend, the man sits, gaunt and long,

  Renownèd far for agile wits, sharp mind –

  Sherlock Holmes. ’Pon him I’ll stake my life.

  I felt moved to show it to Holmes.

  “A touch florid, perhaps,” I said, “but a decent stab all the same. It’s an archetypal Petrarchan sonnet, by the way.”

  “If you say so,” he replied airily. “As you know, literature is not one of my fortes. Hum! The ‘handsome friend’, eh?”

  “Miss Allerthorpe is no less complimentary about you.”

  “So I see, although the adjective ‘long’ appears to have been chosen more for rhyme than descriptive accuracy.”

  I chuckled in assent. “That notwithstanding, the poem reveals what a sensitive, intelligent girl its author is, which inclines me to wish to help her all the more.”

  “You ever were a fool for a pretty face, Watson, especially when it is attached to a damsel in distress. Yet does not Miss Allerthorpe’s abundant imaginativeness give you pause?”

  “Your implication being that she is the type prone to fantasy, and therefore an unreliable witness.”

  “It is quite possible that a young woman with high-flown poetical tendencies might have invented some, if not all, of the remarkable events she has regaled us with. I refer in particular to the shadowy, glowing-eyed figure she claims she saw out on the lake ice.”

  “Do you think she is putting us on? Hysterical, even?”

  “Possibly,” said Holmes. “You must also bear in mind that she had, by her own admission, taken a dose of chloral hydrate that evening. The drug’s hypnotic qualities may have impaired her faculties.”

  “You mean she was still half asleep when she saw the Black Thurrick. It may have been just part of some waking dream.”

  “It is a medically plausible scenario, is it not?”

  I shrugged my shoulders, as if to acknowledge that it was. Sleeping draughts affected people in different ways, and among the potential side effects of chloral hydrate, as with most sedatives, were bouts of disorientation and even hallucinations.

  “Furthermore,” Holmes continued, “why has the Thurrick chosen to terrorise her and her brother? Each is an adult and has no offspring, and we are told that the creature has a particular grisly penchant for the very young. What might account for this alteration in its time-honoured habits?”

  “You speak as if the Black Thurrick were real.”

  “Oh no, Watson. It is not. I am merely pointing out an inconsistency which may or may not be pertinent. All in all, there is not yet sufficient data for me to make a definitive determination regarding Miss Allerthorpe’s case. Hence I have no alternative but to give the lady the benefit of the doubt, for now.”

  “In some ways, I am rather surprised that you have agreed to take the case at all. As you say, there is no sign of any crime.”

  “Yet a large inheritance is involved, and where one finds one of those, and moreover a vulnerable recipient, one is apt also to find malicious intent. Besides, the whole thing has a somewhat outré aspect, and you know the appeal the outré holds for me. Give me the outré over the humdrum any day! Above all else, I am curious to meet the extended Allerthorpe tribe. Large families intrigue me. They are stews of rivalry, jealousy and long-held enmity, and in the wealthy ones those qualities are only amplified.” Sherlock Holmes rubbed his hands together. “Yes, old friend, I am rather looking forward to the next few days. You might consider this a little Christmas gift to myself, although it remains to be seen whether, when unwrapped, it proves to be treasure or trifle.”

  Chapter Five

  FELLSCAR KEEP

  Our train rattled out of King’s Cross shortly after ten the next day, bearing us northward to York. Overnight, clouds had set in over London and the Midlands and yet again snow had begun to fall heavily. Fat flakes flurried past the carriage windows, mingling with the smoke from the locomotive’s funnel to create a flickering, chiaroscuro whirl of white and grey outside.

  Some thirty minutes into the journey Holmes remarked that we were making good time, in spite of the conditions. “We are travelling at a mean speed of sixty-eight miles an hour,” he said.

  “How on earth can you tell?” I asked.

  He put away his half hunter, which he had been consulting. “Simple. The standard length of a piece of rail track on the Great Northern Railway is sixty feet precisely. The wheels beneath us make a distinct clack every time they cross the join between one rail and the next. The clacks are occurring at a rate of approximately a hundred per minute. The rest is pure arithmetic. One may make a similar calculation using the trackside telegraph poles, but at night, or on a day like today when visibility is so poor, the rail-length method is more practical.”

  Having changed at York for the Scarborough line, we pulled in at Bridlington station some three quarters of an hour later. A bro
ugham awaited us out front, along with a taciturn coachman who, in a thick Yorkshire brogue, ventured the following greeting: “Mr ’olmes and Dr Watson? Miss Eve has sent me ter tek thee ter Fellscar. Put thah bags on’t back, gentlemen, and ’op in. Thah’ll find blankets on the seats ter wrap this’sen in.”

  The snow had by now stopped falling but lay thick all around. The brougham trundled through white-blanketed countryside, its wheels and the horse’s hooves making scarcely a sound on the road. The gently undulating landscape was parcelled up by drystone walls, which were mostly buried under snowdrifts. Here and there a tree strained upward from the ground, seeming to claw the overcast sky with its bare branches. We passed the occasional mean-looking, half-derelict dwelling – a croft, a smallholding – which if not for the skein of smoke rising from its chimney would have appeared uninhabited.

  Then the road dipped down through a valley. At a junction, I spied a fingerpost pointing to Yardley Cross, but we took a different, unmarked route along a narrow track, and presently, as the brougham crested the brow of a hill, Holmes and I gained our first glimpse of Fellscar Keep.

  I cannot say I was filled with any great joy, for the castle, huge as it was, seemed eminently forbidding. I had had little idea what to expect, but it surely was not this rambling agglomeration of black stone topped by an equally black slate-tiled roof. The edifice, built in the Gothic Revival style, had neither symmetry nor elegance. The windows were small and mean, and the battlements lofty and teeming, topped with toothsome crenellations. Wing abutted against wing, showing, to my mind, no obvious plan – a collision of irregular geometric shapes such as a child might make with wooden building blocks.