“My dear fellow,” said Sherlock Holmes, as we sat at either side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, “life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. There is,” the great detective commented, “nothing so unnatural as the commonplace.”
From Cornish devils, to Welsh witches, from Ghazi genies, to Covent Garden mediums, from pagan sacrifices, to mummies’ curses, The Infinitely Stranger Cases of Sherlock Holmes collects six canonical tales which test Holmes’s ability to unravel the conspiracies, the misdirections, the strange, and the curious. The game is afoot.
“My dear fellow,” said Sherlock Holmes, as we sat at either side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, “life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. There is,” the great detective commented, “nothing so unnatural as the commonplace.”
From Cornish devils, to Welsh witches, from Ghazi genies, to Covent Garden mediums, from pagan sacrifices, to mummies’ curses, The Infinitely Stranger Cases of Sherlock Holmes collects six canonical tales which test Holmes’s ability to unravel the conspiracies, the misdirections, the strange, and the curious. The game is afoot.
Holmes was lounging in his armchair, busily packing his before-breakfast pipe with all the dottles left from the previous day’s smokes. I had just rung for breakfast and was contemplating my own pipe of Ship’s when Mrs. Hudson materialized at the door.
Our landlady was an eminently practical woman who had come to accept her home being invaded by all manner of strange characters with almost saint-like serenity. That morning, however, she looked so sorely tested that both myself and Holmes immediately leapt to our feet. “Why,” I asked, “whatever is it?”
“You’d best come see for yourselves,” she answered, “and, Doctor, bring your bag, I’m afraid you may have need of it.”
Although it was still early, that morning was one of those bright days when summer hadn’t yet given way to autumn. The hallway was illuminated by a shaft of sunlight streaming through the fanlight, and it was this which made the figure lying on the floor look as though he was carved in marble.
On closer examination, the prone youth was revealed to be dressed entirely in white. A mane of black hair framed his face, which looked curiously flushed. His body was rigid, his hands tightly clenched, and while he was fair-faced, he had a pinched and terrible expression, which was made all the more horrifying for way his eyes stared, unblinking, at the ceiling.
His pulse was fast and irregular, his pupils dilated, and it was these final details which gave me my diagnosis: Epilepsy. Fortunately, I was familiar with Trousseau’s work and, while medicine is still woefully uninformed as to the causes of the grand mal, I was relieved that I could at least treat its symptoms.
I loosened the poor fellow’s tie, removed his collar, and tried my best to make him comfortable, placing my own jacket beneath his head as a makeshift pillow.
For a moment, it seemed that the catatonia would pass. Then the youth’s body began to shake and spasm with such fearful violence that I feared he would injure himself. Thankfully, the epileptic paroxysmal didn’t last, and Holmes and I were soon able carry him up to our rooms. There, we drew the blinds and lay him on his side, on Holmes’s bed, to recover.
Holmes had often spoken dismissively of the fairer sex, but he always exhibited a great courtesy to them in person. “My dear Mrs. Hudson,” he said, in the gentlest of tones, “you’ve had quite the shock. Please, do sit down and tell us everything.”
Our redoubtable landlady would only acquiesce once she had furnished us with that great British cure-all – a pot of tea – after which she settled into Holmes’s favourite chair to relate the morning’s events.
“I was preparing rashers and eggs for yourself and the Good Doctor when I heard someone at the door,” she said. “The bell rang in a series of quick, sharp dings, so urgent-seeming that I dropped what I was doing and fairly ran to the door. When I opened it, there was a young man standing there, a cigarette in one hand, the other still on the bell pull.
“I don’t think he saw me at all – his attention was quite elsewhere. He was straining to look at someone or something over his shoulder, so that when I asked if I could be of assistance, he almost jumped out of his skin.
“He spoke quickly, in a breathless tone that spoke of great urgency. He asked if this was the residence of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and when I said that it was, he asked to be admitted.
“All the while we spoke, he continued glancing over his shoulder, as though there was someone he wished to avoid – someone who was fast on his heels . . . .”
“Did you see anyone?” Holmes interrupted.
“No, but the young man was on the top step, which quite obscured my view of the pavement below.”
“Excellent, Mrs. Hudson. Please, continue.”
“He was nervous – jumpy I’d say. I felt sure he must be in grave danger, so I wasted no time in asking him to step inside.
“He was almost in the hallway, still glancing back, when he threw up his arms and let out the most horrifying cry. His head spun ‘round and he fixed me with the most awful stare. Oh, Mr. Holmes, what a look he had! As though he had seen the Devil himself.
“I can tell you, I closed that door as fast as I could, throwing the bolt for good measure. I was just turning to speak to him again when I saw him shudder, then topple over. He dropped like a stone, and with such force that I heard an almighty crack as he hit the tiles. He looked so pale, I was convinced he had done himself a serious injury. He will be all right won’t he, Doctor?”
I was reassuring the dear woman when, as if on cue, Holmes’s bedroom door opened and out walked our visitor, looking a little ragged, but considerably less wan than he had half-an-hour earlier.
In another life, Mrs. Hudson would have made an excellent nurse. Within ten minutes, all three of us were seated around a roaring fire with a fresh pot of coffee and plates piled high with those neglected eggs and rashers. Within fifteen minutes more, we were replete – our visitor sore-headed and a little embarrassed, but otherwise well, and keen to relate his tale.
“My name,” he began, in a soft voice, softened further by a gentle Cornish burr, “is Christopher Angove. I was orphaned when I was five and raised by my maternal uncle, Captain Pengellys.
“My Genni is soon to come into her majority, and we are planning to marry.” Here Angove paused, and added in a defiant whisper, “Oh, the doctors have quite different ideas about that, of course! They would have me dosed on bromide and heading for a life of lonely solitude. But my uncle has always wanted the best for me – and my fiancé is quite prepared to take the risks of an epileptic for a husband.
“No, Mr. Holmes, despite the rather sad spectacle I’ve presented this morning, my life isn’t that of the invalid. It is as rich as any young man could hope for – and about to be enriched further by the addition of a loving wife and, if the Lord blesses us, a family.
“However, the reason for consulting you has nothing to do with any of these things . . . . .” Here Angove faltered. “Before I go further, Mr. Holmes, I must ask you something. It will no doubt seem curious, and it may color your perception of me in the asking of it. But ask it I must, for the events I am about to relate occasion a certain flexibility of mind that isn’t usual. My question is this: Do you believe in devils?”
“I have met real, flesh-and-blood men to whom I would happily apply the epithet ‘devil’.”
“I mean Biblical devils, Mr. Holmes. Physical incarnations of evil.”
If Holmes thought any less of our visitor for his question, he didn’t show it. Instead, he answered in the same measured tone he often used with clients. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I am bedeviled, Mr. Holmes! Even now, even here, on the streets of this great metropolis, I am not safe. I’m being hunted, Mr. Holmes! Hunted!”
“I believe in facts, Mr. Angove” he answered. “Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, no matter how incredible it may appear, will be the truth.”
“So, you admit the possibility?”
“I have no evidence to either prove or disprove the existence of what people call devils. So, yes, I would admit the possibility.”
“And have you, Mr. Holmes, ever seen a devil?”
Holmes paused, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “If you mean a creature from the fiery pits – You would not credit it, but in my youth, I actually went in search of such a being.”
Angove looked sufficiently intrigued for Holmes to elaborate.
“When I was a boy, it was rumored that a creature of great age and malevolence roamed the grounds of my school. It was said to walk the dormitories every evening, and if you weren’t a-bed by lights out, it would appear and drag you off.”
“Heavens!” I said, momentarily entranced by the unexpected revelation from Holmes’s past. “What a tale to tell to young boys!”
“Indeed,” Holmes smiled demurely. “The story was well established by the time I started as a boarder and, like all good stories, it was based on verifiable truths.
“The school was once a monastery which had been gifted an area of woodland by the King in the Twelfth Century. The land was said to be the abode of a demonic beast, whose lust for blood was so fierce that the King believed only God’s influence would calm it. Apparently it failed, for the woods took on an ominous reputation. It was claimed that those who entered them would surely die.
“By the time the monastery became a school, there had been enough unexplained deaths in and around the area to make the woods off-limits – but that didn’t stop boys from daring each other to spend the night there. The year before my arrival, two boys had gone missing. When they were found, they were quite out of their minds . . . .”
“Holmes!” I cut in, shooting a glance at our ashen-faced guest.
Holmes gave me the whisper of a smile before replying, “Oh, I think the young man is quite recovered, but you’re right. That is a story for another time. Please, Mr. Angove…”. Holmes waved a hand airily, for our visitor to continue.
“Kit,” Angove said. “Call me Kit. Everyone does.”
“Well then, Kit, tell us about your devil.”
“It isn’t so much my devil, as St. Mawr’s. The legend goes back centuries – although I hadn’t heard it until Skipper Williams told it to me.”
“And who is Skipper Williams?”
“Genni – my fiancé’s – father. He’s in the same line as my uncle.”
“Fishing?”
Kit raised an eyebrow, quizzically.
“I recognize a fisherman’s calluses when I see them” Holmes explained.
Angove was tall and well-built, and now that Holmes had identified him as a fisherman, it was easy to see how the work and the elements had fashioned him into the fine young man he was.
“My uncle has a small fishing fleet” Kit continued. “Nothing too grand, you understand. Six boats, which has given him income enough to school me and make me an allowance – which I rather waste on clothes!” He blushed, chuckling at his own expense.
“Uncle still thinks of himself as a humble fisherman, but he spends as much time behind a desk these days as he does at sea. I help him when I can, as he intends for me to take over the running of things, in time. As I say, he has never considered me an invalid. ‘Fresh air and exercise – that’s the ticket!’ he’s always said.”
“If I may,” I interjected, “how long have you been afflicted by these seizures?”
“Since I was a boy. My uncle believes they stem from my parents’ accident. They died when their carriage overturned. I remember nothing of the tragedy but, since then, the fits have come on me in times of distress, so my uncle may have the truth of it.”
“When your parents died,” Holmes asked, “were you left anything in trust?”
“I see where you are going, Mr. Holmes,” Kit replied, with an fresh edge to his voice. “No. My parents were barely starting out in life. All they had was each other. And all my uncle had was his beloved little sister. He’s always cared for me as if I were his own.”
“And this devil?”
Kit took a deep breath, steadying himself it seemed, before replying. “They call it ‘Old Tebel’. He’s said to haunt the hills around St. Mawr’s. He latches onto young men and carries them away on their wedding night.”
“For what possible reason?” I asked.
“To protect Cornish maidens from unsuitable beaus!”
Holmes barked out a laugh.
“I agree, Mr. Holmes,” Kit said, quietly – as though somehow the creature he spoke of could be conjured just by the saying of its name. “Any other time, I would have been laughing along with you. But this thing is real. You must believe me!”
“It followed you here?” Holmes asked, leaning out of his seat, in an attitude of intense concern.
“The truth, Mr. Holmes? I’ve begun to see him everywhere. Never fully, you understand. Just glimpses. A shimmering shape, something in the mist, half-formed, half-seen. But so unnerving that terror has begun to weigh upon me like an anchor. I fear I am losing my mind.”
I had a sinking premonition that the young man’s nervous system wouldn’t stand up to a recitation of his encounters with this mysterious creature, but Kit was determined to persevere.
“I’m fine, honestly, Doctor,” he said to my expressions of concern. “Let me tell you what I came to relate. Then, you and Mr. Holmes can decide if my troubles are worthy of your attentions.”
Holmes pushed a glass of brandy into Angove’s hand. The young man took it gratefully, downed it in one swallow before closing his eyes, and continued.
“I’ve known Genni since we were children. Her father used to work a lugger on the Atlantic Fleet out of Falmouth. He would be away for weeks at a time, and Genni’s mother would send her out to ramble the hills to get her from under foot. We spent many-a-summer together climbing trees, fishing, and paddling – and had plighted our troth to each other long before we knew what the words meant.
“Genni’s mother died before we reached adolescence, and my Uncle Jacob offered her father a job, so that he could be closer to home.
“Over time, our friendship grew into something more significant and, when I finished school, I didn’t think it forward to ask for her hand in marriage.
“Genni isn’t yet twenty-one. We cannot marry without her father’s permission. Alas, he will not give it – feeling that a young man like myself, with little experience of life, may come to regret marrying so young. ‘A childhood companion,’ he says, ‘is quite a different thing to a wife. And what you take for love may be nothing more than the natural affection that children, raised almost as siblings, have for each other.’
“In faith, I cannot be angry at his decision. Genni is his only child. His caution is natural. And he hasn’t been unfriendly. Ordinarily, he’s a quiet sort. Keeps himself to himself. Genni is his cook and housekeeper, and the two of them live very simply in his little cottage by the bluff. Yet, he has thrown open his home to me – and I have become a regular at his table.
“It was one evening, a week after my proposal, that it happened. I had been invited for supper. After, as Genni busied herself in the kitchen, her father and I took a circuit of the garden. The skipper passed me his cigarettes, and we talked of the future, with me I impressing upon him my good prospects, in the hope that he might relent and agree to our marriage sooner rather than later.
“After a while, the evening turned cold – a storm was coming and I had already begun to shiver – so we retired to the sitting room to warm ourselves in front of the fire. The weather quickly turned from bad to worse. Soon, the wind was howling down the chimney and rattling the casement windows so that, even in the cozy room, we felt its effects.
“I remember, as the evening grew darker, I found myself feeling strangely detached. The lights from the lamps and fire seemed too bright. I sunk back into the chair, into the dark, pulling a blanket around my knees. It was while I was in this queer frame of mind that Mr. Williams suggested a round of storytelling – the storm seeming to lend itself to tales of weird and wild things.
“I should, perhaps, have cried off, but he was in a rare good humor and I was keen to spend as much time in Genni’s company as I could.”
“‘Here’s tale you should appreciate, young buck,’ he said, laughing, ‘though mayhap you won’t appreciate it quite so much once I’m done! Old Tebel has lived in these hills for longer than there have been people to tell of it,’ he commenced.
“‘Tebel is a Cornish word for the Devil – at least that’s what my old Ma told me, for that’s what the monster is said to look like: Tall, red-skinned, with clawed hands, and hoofs where its feet should be. His head is wreathed in fire, and he has a set of large, milky eyes – for he lives in the dark places and, like all creatures of the night, has great, saucer-like eyes with which to pierce the veil.
“‘Now, the Tebel has a fancy for young girls, and it’s his greatest joy to watch them. He never reveals himself to them but, oh, they feel his regard, of that you can be sure. He’s there when they walk the wooded vales, there when they splash across the brooks and streams, there whenever they’re out, in the lonely places. It’s the Tebel who makes the young girls uneasy as day turns to night. It’s the Tebel who makes them jump at shadows. It’s the Tebel that makes them speed up their tread, although there’s nothing to be seen beyond the gloom which grows ever thicker, ever darker.
“‘In all of its unnaturally long life, the Tebel has never harmed a girl or a woman. No. You might say he feels proprietorial about them. As though these beautiful young creatures are his, and his alone. And it’s there that the danger lies.
“‘For while Old Tebel is content to creep and peep, to watch and lurk, should one of his young maidens appear with a beau, then bloody murder is the result.’
“While the tale was harmless enough, the more the skipper spoke, the more uncomfortable I began to feel. The light still hurt my eyes, and swaddled in my nook, I began to imagine that I was, in fact, ensconced in some deep cave, and instead of Williams sitting across from me, there was Old Tebel. I do not lie when I say that I saw the skipper’s face begin to shift and remold itself into the form of a hideous demon. So strong was the vision that, in the grip of it, I unknowingly, cried out.”
“‘Oh, now Tás!’ Genni jumped up. ‘Enough of that!’
“Her father – Tás is her pet name for him – looked unchastened. Indeed, he seemed delighted at how well his ghost story had been received.”
“‘The Tebel is neither fast nor stealthy,’ he resumed with a chuckle. ‘You will hear him come for you. You will hear his hooves on the road, behind you. You will hear the snicker-snick, as he sharpens his claws. You will feel his fiery breath on your neck, and when you turn around, you will see him in all his demonic glory. Redder than arterial blood, burning with an unholy fire, and in his huge eyes, you will see your own reflection. You will see how you blanch as he moves towards you, and you will watch, paralyzed, unmoving, unable to cry out, as he hoists you onto his shoulder and carries you away!’
“I should, perhaps, have recognized the signs of an oncoming seizure, but it came upon me so quickly I barely knew what was happening.
“When I awoke, I was back home with my uncle. Beyond a dreadful thirst, I was well, yet I could remember nothing of what had happened – and I haven’t felt at ease since.”
“Have you seen this Tebel again?”
“Many times, Mr. Holmes. At first, whenever I visited my dear Genni, but increasingly, he seems to haunt my every movement. Why, this morning, as I was walking from the station – enjoying the sights of the city – I suddenly felt his baleful gaze. By the time I reached your door, I was convinced that I was about spirited away!
“Yet what is worse, Mr. Holmes, is that every time the old devil appears, the grand mal assails me. Each fit is more terrifying, more violent. After the last attack, I was insensible for many days. It was then that I determined to break it off with Genni. But oh, Mr. Holmes, if you have ever been in love, you will know that the heart and the head aren’t always in accord. Instead, I have chosen the path of the coward. For this past month, I have kept my distance. We write to each other three times a day and, yesterday, came the most wonderful missive. She declares that her love for me has only grown in intensity and, when she comes of age, nothing will stop her. We will marry – devil or no!”
“If I may ask, Kit, why did you think to consult Mr. Holmes? Forgive me, but demons are hardly his usual stock-in-trade.”
“It was at my uncle’s insistence. I had set out yesterday to speak to the skipper. Going against her father’s wishes doesn’t sit well with me. I still believed I could persuade him – and I wasn’t disappointed. He said that time had proved me faithful and, seeing how miserable his Genni had been, he no longer has any wish to keep us apart. He gave us his blessing, although he wouldn’t let me speak to Genni then – He wanted to give her the good news, and claim a little credit back for himself after being cast as the villain for so long.
“I was so giddy that I immediately went to tell my uncle the news. To my surprise, instead of sharing my joy, he insisted instead that I set out for London – there to seek you out and engage your help.”
“He’s clearly a perceptive man” replied Holmes in that quiet, intense way he has when a case begins to consume him. “Very perceptive. Now, Kit, I think Doctor Watson would prescribe bed rest – and plenty of it.”
Angove didn’t take much persuading. Holmes led him back to his own snug, little bedroom, leaving the two of us alone to plan.
“What do you think?” I asked. “Do you think there’s a case here buried under all the monsters and myths?”
“I do. So far, everything I’ve heard screams foul play. I’ve no doubt that Mr. Angove is in deadly peril. But I must not ignore the possibility that this devil – for want of a better word – is psychosomatic. What do you think, Watson? Is he a reliable witness?”
“Is Christopher Angove really seeing devils, or merely imagining them, you mean?”
“Quite.”
“It’s hard to say. Throughout history, epileptics have been regarded as insane, half-witted, possessed. The Romans believed the illness was contagious. Until recently, it was said to be caused by sexual excesses. Many of those attitudes persist. Even in England, in the enlightened nineteenth century, you will find epileptics refused work, condemned to the work-house, or worse, to an asylum, because of a misunderstanding of the illness. Those who enter such institutions rarely leave. All I can say with any surety is that we have no idea what we’re dealing with.”
“Perhaps a better question, then, would be: Could his visions be caused by the epilepsy, or should we seek some outside force?”
“The mind is a curious thing, but from what little I know of epilepsy, if visual or auditory hallucinations occur – and it is rare – then they occur during the seizure, not before.”
Holmes stoked the fire and, for a while, we sat in silence. Then he finished his abandoned before-breakfast pipe, fixed his cool, grey eyes on mine, and said “What we have heard is very suggestive, but we must step cautiously. Watson, I have never needed you more. I will be relying on your knowledge and good sense to guide me.”
With those words, I suddenly felt a great weight fall upon me. I only hoped that I was equal to the confidence Holmes placed upon me.
St. Mawr’s nestles on the southern coast of Cornwall, looking for all the world like a picture book painting of how an English fishing village should be. A long, straggling street fronts the sea and, along it, runs a row of picturesque cottages, painted in breezy blues, pretty pinks, and sunny yellows.
A pier stretches out from the sea wall, affording a fine view of the remains of a medieval castle on the peninsula. The castle itself is a surprisingly squat and ugly thing – which, as many visitors have commented – quite spoils the otherwise idyllic scene.
The region owes its prosperity to a flooded valley which was carved out during the Ice Age and now forms one of England’s largest natural harbors. It is in this harbor that St. Mawr’s fishermen ply their trade. And it is in the wooded hills above the village that those who have made their money in that most perilous of occupations build the homes.
Cornwall may be known as the English Riviera, but the journey to Saint-Tropez is considerably easier than the one we took from London to St. Mawr’s. A hansom, a sleeper-train, and a steam ferry were necessary to reach the village itself. An open carriage was awaiting us on arrival and, after a long and weary journey, it was a delightful to have the fresh sea-breeze on our faces as we were whisked through the village and up, into the hills, beyond.
Captain Pengellys’s home is known as Dowr Carrek, which is Cornish for Rock Anchorage – and the age-worn, angular grange turned out to be a wonderfully suitable place for the square, much-weathered sea captain.
The driver had barely brought the horses to a halt when a berry-faced hulk of a man appeared. He lolloped, ape-like, towards the vehicle and, before we could protest, he’d taken our bags and was heading back towards the grange, calling for us to follow.
Pengellys may have been a man of some standing locally, but his home was a place of domestic simplicity. There were no armies of servants – just a cook and a maid who came from the village “to do for the captain”. They shared his table and his confidences as though they were family.
Holmes, whose Bohemian soul railed at the straight-jacket of society, was quite charmed.
As soon as we had refreshed ourselves from the journey, we were invited into what the captain called the back parlor for a glass of mead and some saffron cake.
A pair of French windows opened out from the parlor into a walled garden and, while Pengellys attended to some household duties, we took the opportunity to explore. The garden was a sprawling affair, filled with all sorts of nooks and hideaways that would have been delightful in the summer. This late in the year, it was sorely overgrown, with only the hardiest of plants still in bloom.
Holmes made a beeline for a foul-smelling broadleaf, with striking, trumpet-shaped flowers.
“Look here, Watson,” he said, in a tone of suppressed excitement.
“Interesting?”
“Very. This, my dear Doctor, is the infamous jimson weed. A poisonous plant from the nightshade family, it’s more commonly known as The Devil’s Snare. It’s found far and wide – often in coastal areas. Its seed pods get scooped up with ship’s ballast, or washed and blown onto foreign shores. It’s also become a popular curio with travelers who bring it home, intrigued by the tales they hear of the plants more unusual qualities.”
“Oh?”
“Oh, indeed! Originally, shaman used the flowers to induce visions. Ingested, they cause delirium. In large doses, they bring on fits, madness. Even death . . . .”
Before I could question Holmes further, we heard Pengellys’s voice from the parlor, calling us in. Kit had been instructed to help Mrs. Harris in the kitchen, allowing us to talk freely with him while his young ward was otherwise occupied.
“I asked Kit to engage you because I know that something is very amiss,” he began. “It seems to me that someone has it in for my boy. I can see no rhyme nor reason for it but, in the last year, Kit has become a shadow of himself. I begin to fear for his life, Mr. Holmes, and that’s no lie.”
The big man’s keen, dark eyes traveled from Holmes to me, and back again – and my companion appeared to be appraising the captain in much the same way.
“You don’t believe in this Old Tebel, then?”
“It’s rot, Mr. Holmes. All this talk of devils and demons! I’m a Christian man, so perhaps I shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss the possibilities, but I can think of better things for one of Old Nick’s creatures to do than haunt lovestruck young men.”
“Tell me about his epilepsy” I interjected.
“We have never hidden Kit’s illness. On the contrary, I’ve been sure that it was known so that should he be taken bad, those around him would know what the trouble was and how best to care for him.”
“And generally, how often do the fits come upon him?”
“Why, never Doctor.”
“Never?”
“When he first came to me, he had a very hard time of it. But good Cornish air, and the feeling of being useful – that’s all a man needs to grow up strong. Until this Tebel business, he hadn’t had an attack for seven, eight years – more even. It was my belief that he had outgrown it.”
“Is that possible, Watson?”
“It’s widely held that fresh air and hard work is beneficial. And those who are stricken as children do sometimes recover as adults,” I affirmed, not feeling anywhere near as confident as I sounded.
“Has he ever had hallucinations – visions – before?” I continued, trying to get a feel for Kit’s symptoms.
“When he was a child, he swore for months that his mother was watching over him. But I couldn’t tell you if it was the grief or the illness at work.”
“And when the fits resumed, did you notice anything different about them?”
“They appear with no warning, are more violent, and take a greater toll.” The captain sighed sadly.
“Mmm.” Holmes steepled his fingers together and regarded Pengellys intently. “You said that you felt someone might ‘have it in’ for Kit. Has he any enemies?”
“Hardly! I may be partial, but the boy hasn’t a bad bone in his body. Why would anyone take against him?”
“What about yourself, Mr. Pengellys? Any business rivals?”
“Psh! This isn’t London, Mr. Holmes. I’m a fisherman. My neighbor’s a fisherman, my neighbor’s neighbor is a fisherman, my housekeeper’s husband is a fisherman. The only thing anyone gets hot under the collar about here is the size of their catch. Besides, at sea, your life may depend on the man next to you. Grudges get themselves worked out pretty fast in those situations.”
“Your domestics?”
“Mrs. Harris and Elowen, you mean? They’ve been with me this past year, since my old housekeeper retired. Came with good references from Falmouth.”
“Didn’t Williams used to ship out of Falmouth?”
“He did. What of it?”
“Just following a train of thought, Mr. Pengellys. Do they tend the garden?”
“I do it myself. I rarely have the time to keep on top of the weeds, these days – though why you should be asking about that, I’m sure I don’t know,” he added, sounding irritated at what he must have taken for random queries.
“What about Williams?”
“Man’s an odd fish, but he owes me his livelihood. His daughter is about to become my daughter. What grievance could he have?”
“Indeed.” Holmes said, his eyes glinting. “Do you have any suspicions?”
“Nothing more than my guts telling me Kit is in terrible danger. But look, I’ve been speaking to Mrs. Harris about supper this evening. I haven’t sent out the invites yet, but I was thinking of asking Williams, Genni, and some of the other skippers. Give the dog chance to see the rabbits?”
“That sounds ideal, Mr. Pengellys. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m of a mind to take a little constitutional. Tell me, are the boats back yet?”
The captain glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Not for a couple of hours. They’ll come in with the tide.”
“Excellent! Perhaps I can take that invitation round to Miss Williams, then?”
The captain gave Holmes a sly, knowing smile, looking considerably warmer towards him than he had a few moments earlier.
“Watson?”
“Yes?”
“You don’t mind staying here?”
“Not at all. Truth be told, I’m still a little fatigued by the journey.”
“Then look to Kit, and ensure he isn’t left alone with anyone outside of the family.”
“Lord!” Pengellys exclaimed. “Is it that bad then?”
“It may be nothing at all,” Holmes said. “Time will tell, Captain. Only time will tell.”
Pengellys may have considered himself a humble fisherman, but he certainly knew how to host a splendid supper.
Holmes and I were to be guests of honor, and it appeared that everyone who was anyone had come out to give the “gentlemen from London” a good looking at.
Despite that fact that Pengellys employed at least half of the twenty people seated around the table, the conversation was refreshingly free of attempts at affectation or flattery. The captain often found himself the butt of the joke – and gave as good as he got, with no indication of bad blood.
The young lovers spent much of the evening glancing at each other, clearly oblivious to anything else.
The captain kept the drink and conversation flowing with an enviable ease, although it didn’t escape Holmes’s notice that his glance was often towards the couple.
Most of the talk was, as the captain had warned us, about catch sizes, which appeared to be a topic of endless fascination. Only once were voices raised. Yet even then, it seemed like the rehashing of age-old grievances, rather than real malice.
“Any minute now,” Kit, said to me, conspiratorially, nodding towards a jowly, blancmange of a fellow, busy filling his face, at the end of the table. “Three glasses down, and he’s about to start at it.”
“You’re a good man, Jacob” the florid-faced skipper suddenly said, raising his voice to be heard over the general murmur of table-talk. “God knows, I don’t begrudge you your success, but how can one man, with one boat, hope to compete with you and your six? Should I come home empty handed, I can’t send out another boat to try their luck elsewhere. Should I hit a good patch, I can only take what will fill my hold.”
Kit leant over and whispered, “He does this every time, Doctor!” The complaint seemed so well-known, it was followed by a chorus of, “Hush, Lowen!” and groans of, “Not this again!”
“I won’t be silenced! Lowen barked back, waving a fork piled high with slices of roast beef, like some ancient battle standard. “You can fill six holds, while I go hungry!”
“You go hungry?” a voice chipped in from the end of the table, which occasioned much laughter. “That’s a new one!”
“So, that’s how it is?” Lowan cried, his face, purpling even more. “You invite me here to be mocked!”
“Come now,” the captain said placatingly. “Five times in the last month, my fleet has turned home empty, while you’ve hit gold. Luck is either with you or not. My offer still stands. You can come out with my boats – we’ll work the fields together.”
“I’d rather be my own boss, thank you,” was the sullen reply.
“You know full well that Cadan often puts out with us. He’s still his own boss.”
“Psh! For now. But I know what you’re about, Jacob. You want to buy up every boat out of St. Mawr’s.”
“Rot! Seas are rich enough for us all to share! Come, fill your glass, refresh your plate. We’re all friends here.”
Lowen did, indeed, return his attentions to his plate, after which the table returned to its good-humored chat.
I was seated beside Kit and Genni, who seemed well-suited in every respect. Kit was tall and broad-shouldered. Genni was almost as tall, and brown as a berry. Where Kit was dapper in his choice of fashion, Genni’s clothes were simple but tasteful, her long, black hair worn down and unadorned. When she spoke, it was in a sing-song voice, full of joy, and free of artifice. London society would have had no time for her, but I was quite enchanted.
Skipper Williams had been placed beside Holmes, allowing my companion to easily get the measure of the man without seeming to pry.
Williams proved to be taciturn, initially speaking only when spoken to. It took all of Holmes’s considerable charm to thaw him out at all.
“You must be looking forward to the wedding, then?” I heard Holmes occasion.
“As much any father looks forward to losing a daughter,” was Williams’s morose reply.
“Surely, you aren’t so much losing a daughter as gaining a son?” Holmes teased.
“Oh, you must take no notice of an old man, set in his ways, Mr. Holmes,” Williams said, lightening his tone. “Genni is my only family. Of course, Kit would be a fine catch for any young woman.”
The evening progressed in much the same way, with neither Holmes nor myself hearing anything that pointed at deeper resentments towards the captain or the young lovers.
Within a few hours, the party began to break up, the fisherman being keen to get some rest before the early tide drew them back to their boats.
Holmes and I had retired for a glass of port with the rest of the stragglers, and were exchanging notes on the evening, when Holmes suddenly grasped me by shoulder.
“With me, now, Watson! If I’m not mistaken, we are about to reach the end of the game.”
Despite the evening chill, it appeared that some brave souls had ventured outside, for the French doors were now ajar.
I followed Holmes outside where I saw Kit and Skipper Williams, walking towards an ornamental gazebo, deep in conversation.
I took Holmes’s lead, moving cautiously along the wall, using the shadows and soft grass to mask our approach.
“Well, then, my lad, it’s all agreed,” I head Williams say. I saw him reach into his pocket to pull out what appeared to be a cigarette case, which he offered to Kit. “I think we’ve time for a celebratory smoke before we head indoors, don’t you?”
Williams struck a Lucifer. As the match caught, its phosphorous glow illuminated both men in a blaze of white light and I was momentarily transfixed by the look of utter hatred emblazoned across Williams’s face.
I didn’t hear Kit’s reply for, in a flash, Holmes was beside him, with myself practically falling over my own feet to catch up.
“Ah, there you are, Kit!” Holmes said nonchalantly. “The young lady sent me out to find you. I’m sure the skipper won’t mind if I share a cigarette with him instead?
Without waiting for a reply, Holmes whipped the cigarette out of Kit’s hand, and leant forwards to light it on Williams’s match.
If Angove was bemused by Holmes’s rudeness, he didn’t stay around to comment, for the news that his lady had requested his presence was enough to send him rushing indoors.
“Interesting,” Holmes said, regarding Williams cooly. “Can’t quite place the blend.”
“I really couldn’t tell you,” Williams responded, sounding uneasy. “Picked them up at the port. They aren’t my usual.”
“Really? They look home-rolled.” Holmes pulled enthusiastically on the cigarette, blowing little smoke rings in the skipper’s face. “It has a strange scent, but I’d warrant Watson would find it less noxious than my usual mix.”
The fisherman coughed and began to back away. “Well, I must be going,” he stammered and, with that, he hurried for the French windows. “It’s getting late.”
“Why don’t you see our new friend out, Watson,” Holmes said airily, still drawing on the cigarette with an attitude of beatific calm.
I did as asked, recalling Holmes’s insistence on not leaving Kit alone.
By the time I reached the parlor, Williams and Genni were the only remaining guests.
If the skipper had seemed self-conscious during supper, he was now in a state of intense agitation. Without a word, he grasped Genni by the elbow and fairly dragged her from the room. I watched them leave and, with a nagging but undefined sense of foreboding, I raced back to the garden.
I was at the windows when I heard a dreadful cry – so loud and tortured that my skin went cold and the hair on my arms began to bristle. I ran then as I had never run before, stumbling in the dark over penchants, fountains, bell jars, and all sorts of garden ornaments, in my eagerness to aid my friend.
The garden seemed impossible to navigate. In the gloom, I found walls where there should have been none. Bushes seemed to throw themselves under my feet. Rose thorns became barbed wire enclosures that plucked at my flesh and tugged at my clothes. And through it all, I could hear Holmes howling, like a man possessed.
Almost as suddenly as they began, the cries stopped, and I felt my blood run cold. I staggered on, feeling dreadfully afraid, until finally, my outstretched hand found the cold metal of the gazebo. Remembering the last time we were here, I fumbled in my jacket for my matches and, after several attempts, one ignited.
Holmes lay no more than a few feet from me – his long frame curled into a fetal ball, his breath coming in rapid gasps.
As I got nearer, I could see his flushed checks, mouth twitching, his pupils, so large and dark, that they quite consumed his face. He threw up his hands, coving his eyes against the flare of the match, with an audible groan. “Holmes, what is it, man?” I asked. “Can you speak?”
For a moment he seemed to shake off whatever had him in its grip. I saw a flash of recognition blaze in his eyes, and raising one hand like a twisted claw, he motioned me to come closer.
I knelt beside him, placing my ear to his mouth. He made a sound somewhere between a sob and a choke, then speaking with a feverish energy, he said “Red as a beet, dry as a bone, blind as a bat, mad as a hatter.”
He shuddered again, his long hands, grasping at the night air, his eyes frantic. “Red as a beet, dry as a bone, blind as a bat, mad as a hatter,” he repeated. The delirious refrain went on for many minutes, and with such intensity, that I began to fear for my friend’s sanity. Then, I reminded myself that this was Sherlock Holmes. Regardless of appearances, there was some part of his remarkable mind that was trying to tell me what had happened.
I tried to question him once more, but it was clear that Holmes had quite exhausted what reserves he had. He let out one more heart-rending groan and, pointing to some horror which only his own disordered mind could see, he slipped into unconsciousness.
With the captain’s aid, I made Holmes as comfortable as I could. Beyond that, there was nothing else to be done – and I fell back into anguished watchfulness.
It seemed increasingly clear to me that Williams was to blame for whatever had befallen Holmes. I kept re-playing that scene in the garden, over and over, in my mind. The cigarette – it had to be that. Yes! When we had first met Angove, Mrs. Hudson had said he was smoking. Holmes had been unable to find the cigarette. Then, I had wondered why he’d looked for it. It now seemed beyond doubt that there had been some toxin in it – and in the one Holmes had just ingested – that had been intended for Kit.
The Captain shared my instincts, along with a burning need for action. So it was, with Kit watching over my friend, that we headed out into the early morning to confront the skipper.
When we reached the bluff, we discovered a small crowd gathered around the little cottage. A pall of smoke hung in the air. With it came a cloying, fetid odor, that caught in the throat and made the eyes sting.
The captain jumped down from the trap, with a look of thunder on his face. “Williams?” he demanded. “Where the devil is Williams?” Pengellys buttonholed one of the bystanders. “You! What goes on here?”
“Seems the skipper lit a bonfire in the garden before he sailed,” the man replied. “Damn fool left it smoldering. Would have had the whole house aflame if it wasn’t for the neighbors raising the alarm.”
The captain was in no mood for small talk, and neither was I. What was left of the cottage door lay on its hinges and the burly man pushed his way into the house, following the tracks of water and footprints left by the impromptu firefighters.
Apart from some smoke, the cottage was undamaged, but the small garden was a blackened mass of tangled and half-burnt foliage.
“What the Hell do you think he was about, Doctor?”
“Covering his tracks” I hazarded.
Pengellys bounded upstairs, calling for Genni, but found the place deserted.
“He could have taken her with him?” I suggested.
The captain ran his hands through his thick hair, tugging at his curly locks in frustration. “Damn it, Doctor, I’ve known this man for decades!”
We appeared to be at an impasse when a cry from outside sent us rushing for the door.
Genni, barefooted and soaked to the skin, was running across the road. The captain took flight toward her and, before long, he had swept the young girl off her feet and into his arms, holding her with all the protective instincts of a papa bear with its cub.
“Calm yourself, girl, calm yourself!” he said to the sobbing woman, but she was quite overwhelmed.
“Come, Doctor!” Captain Pengellys cried, carrying her to the trap. “Let’s go home. It looks like we have another patient for you to care for.”
The events of the last few hours had clearly taken their toll. On the trap, Genni fell asleep in my arms. It was fully twenty-four hours before either she or Holmes awoke – thankfully, both very much recovered.
We were gathered in the parlor, with the blinds drawn at Holmes’s request, and it was there, in the unnatural gloom, that he related a tale whose details were as dark as the room itself.
“It was the story of Old Tebel that sparked my interest,” he said, his voice cracking. “Was Kit such an invalid that a ghost story would send him into a fit? I didn’t think so. Indeed, I tried one of my own, and even in his weakened state, Kit showed no signs of alarm at it. No, the story of Old Tebel was intended to create mischief. Or sew the seeds of some.
“Still, Watson had told me that epilepsy was poorly understood – and I felt on unsteady ground. Then, I learned from the captain that Kit had quite outgrown his illness . . . and that changed everything.
“Let us imagine that someone wishes to do harm, using a toxin that will induce hallucinations and bring about fits, safe in the knowledge that the effects will be taken for epilepsy. Let’s imagine they throw in a tale of devils for the disordered mind to feed on. Very quickly, the who and the how becomes clear.
“There are many toxins that cause fever, delirium, tachycardia, mydriasis – a dilation of the pupils – even hallucinations. Only one, to my knowledge, causes all of these, plus a dreadful thirst and pronounced photophobia – Datura stramonium. The symptoms can be summed up by this jolly little ditty: “Red as a beet, dry as a bone, blind as a bat, mad as a hatter.”
Holmes rummaged in his jacket pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. Inside was a crushed, white bloom which I recognized immediately.
“Jimson weed!”
“Quite.”
“Why, Mr. Holmes,” the captain stated, “I have some of that in my own garden. It grows wild over these parts. It’s an insidious weed. I’ve spent many a day trying to eradicate it.”
“I had noticed,” Holmes smiled. “As you say, it’s common enough. My visit to Williams’s cottage revealed that he had his own quite-splendid jimson weed plant – Only, unlike yours, his was well cultivated, with signs of regular clipping. The plant blooms late in the year, but his plant’s flower heads were already quite gone.”
“But good Lord!” Pengellys cried. “Why!”
“I kept asking myself the same question. What good is the who and the how, without the why? The only possibility was the marriage. So determined was Williams to prevent it that when the young couple vowed that they would press ahead regardless of obstacles, he set out to put an end to it once and for all.”
“You mean – ?” I asked, aghast.
Holmes nodded grimly. “The cigarette I ingested was enough to lay me out for twenty-four hours – ”
“You knew!” I cried.
Holmes held up a hand, placatingly. “The flowers could have been placed in Kit’s food or drink, but that wouldn’t explain his fit in Baker Street. The more I heard, the more I believed that the cigarettes Williams had been giving him held the secret. Nothing was certain, beyond the fact that, if I was correct, the risks to me were minimal. But to Kit? After months of being dosed with cigarettes, Kit was already, as the captain noted, a shadow of himself. I believe had he ingested that last dose, then madness or death would have been the final result.”
“But why?” asked Kit, horrified.
“I think” Holmes said gently, “that Genni can tell us that.”
The young girl sat on the floor beside Kit, looking so unlike the happy, confident young woman of the party that my heart went out to her.
“Mr. Holmes is right,” she said. “I always knew that Tás was reluctant for me to marry. It is the way of fathers, I think. No man is ever good enough. Not even – ” she glanced at Kit sadly “ – the boss’s son. But it wasn’t until last night that I realized the hatred he bore for Kit.
“After we returned home, he was like a man possessed! He swore that no daughter of his would be ‘sullied by a union with a mentally deficient’! I’ve never seen him like that. The way he snarled, the way his face twisted – it was as though I was looking at Old Tebel himself!
“Then he began pulling up the plants and building that terrible pyre. I was so fearfully afraid of what he might be about that I ran to the one place I knew he would never find me – the sea caves. You remember them, Kit? How we played there as children?
“He was so wild, so crazed, that he didn’t see me leave, but later, I saw him, running along the sand, calling my name. I have never been so afraid. He railed and screamed and cursed, pounding through the surf until I became convinced that he would wake the whole village with his ravings. Indeed, a couple of fisherman, readying their boats for the tide, accosted him and asked him what he was about. For a moment, I thought he would recruit them to his cause, but instead he headed off, towards the cove where our own boat is anchored.”
To hear such a story, to learn how one man had been twisted by hate until all reason was gone, shocked me to my core. Williams had lost everything – family, home, livelihood – and he was now a fugitive. And why? Ignorance, half-truths, and fear. “Good Lord!” I cried, feeling a deep despair creep upon me. “So that’s it? He’s slipped away then?”
“Don’t worry, Watson. We can inform the authorities. Put the word out at the ports.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary” the captain avowed. “If he went out with his crew, it won’t be long before they’ll be chomping at the bit to come home. If he didn’t . . . Well, he’ll soon have to put in. No skipper, no matter how skilled, can navigate Cornish seas on his own. It’s just a matter of time.”
“But what if he gets away?” I cried, feeling that some redress was necessary.
“What if he does?” Captain Pengellys proclaimed. “Good riddance! At the end of days, there’ll be a devil waiting for him right enough – but it won’t be Old Tebel. For now, I can consider myself doubly blessed. I already have the son of my heart – and now I have the daughter too. This is your home now, Genni, and as soon as we can arrange a priest, we will make that official.”
At that moment, I looked from Genni to Kit, and suddenly I felt a flush of hope. These young people had endured so much, yet their love had remained strong.
“This is what it’s all about, aye, Doctor?” said the captain, beaming with fatherly joy. “We cannot stop the hate, but we can counter it with love.”
“Indeed, Mr. Pengellys,” I said. “Indeed.”
NOTES
• Trousseau is Armand Trousseau, whose work covered what modern medicine would term neurological diseases, such as apoplexy, epilepsy, and Parkinson’s Disease. He was one of the earliest physicians to describe grand mal seizures in detail.
• Bromide was an early treatment for the symptoms of epilepsy, and it is still used today. In the Victorian era, side effects could be severe, including skin blisters that could cause permanent scars, lethargy, slurred speech, uncontrolled body movements, and sexual disfunction. In Holmes’s era, many of those with mild epilepsy preferred the fits to the cure.
• There is no St. Mawr’s in Cornwall. We can only assume that Watson has changed the names to preserve the privacy of those involved in the events.
• Cornish folklore doesn’t have any reference to an Old Tebel, although the word Tebel does mean evil. It is likely that Williams made up the story specifically to target Kit.
Paula Hammond's Sherlock Holmes is as "infinitely stranger" as these six short stories. "The world's first consulting detective," invented by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, appears less ego driven than in various other renditions. That declaration is based on reads of novels and stories by Doyle and a wide range of other writers cloaked in the Holmesian genre.
A key difference in the Infinitely Stranger Cases is how Hammond pulls the character into contemporary societal problems through 19th century settings and dialogue. Perhaps it is that little has changed in humankind.
For example, "The Devil's Snare," a love story set against the late 1800's prejudices and superstition about epilepsy, rolls into a saga about how ignorance, half-truths and fear causes bitter hatred. A man gripped by those forces loses family, home and work. It is a cautionary tale as our society riddles with fear and prejudice over diseases, foreigners and identities.
Each chapter is structured to entertain and educate. Endnotes help readers grasp references in the narrative. For example, Hammond explains a reference to Armand Trousseau, one of the first neuroscientists to detail grand mal seizures. Another reference explains bromide as an early treatment for the epileptics still in use today. The author notes that side effects included, "skin blisters that could cause permanent scars, lethargy, slurred speech, uncontrolled body movements, and sexual disfunction." Hammond ends, "In Holmes’s era, many of those with mild epilepsy preferred the fits to the cure."
Another marked difference is that "Devil's Snare," and the other stories in the volume, tend to end on a positive note. "Suddenly I felt a flush of hope," says Watson, the narrator. "These young people had endured so much, yet their love had remained strong."
"The Case of the Covent Garden Medium" also tugs at readers' hearts. Watson mourns the loss of his wife, Mary. Holmes takes on the psychic world. As with any tale where people want to contact deceased loved ones, readers are challenged to ask what they believe. The characters' hearts and minds are tied up in belief. The images of 19th century Spiritualism echo many current occult debates, psychics included. In the end, Sherlock has pity on a good-hearted hustler.
Hammond's easily readable prose makes this book fun. Holmes fans and mystery lovers will find satisfaction in The Infinitely Stranger Cases of Sherlock Holmes, and can decide whether they believe in the medium's gifts.