Sherlock Holmes and The Scarlet Thread of Murder (2 page)

“I am, Watson. He's a fiendish man, a banker. He is unaware of my knowledge of him, but he is a member of a spiritualist club that often partakes in immoral indulgences fit only for the ancient city of Corinth. It is likely his wife left for good reason, probably to escape his lunacy.”

“Well,“ said I, “not all of these letters can be from such indulgent individuals, surely.”

“No, no, they are not.” He threw the letter down and collapsed into his chair. Legs sprawled and finger tips steepled, he continued, “But they are all void of interest. A missing ring here, a problematic will there, men and women wanting to cover their petty scandals. I'm not a repair service, Watson. Give me real problems, give me real work! Don't hound me with these minuscule problems that Scotland Yard's most ineffective officer could handle.”

“I'm sure something will crop up. It always does,” I assured him. He nodded and rolled his eyes. Just then, the bell rang.

“Half a second ring!” said Holmes, sitting up straight. He slouched back into his chair. “Probably someone with a missing pet.”

I could hear the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. I walked to the door and opened it before our guest could knock. It was a man around five feet five inches. He had blonde hair and blue eyes, was dressed in a well-pressed black suit and held a top hat in his hand.

“Are you Sherlock Holmes?” asked the man in a thick Scottish accent.

“I am Doctor Watson...”

“Yes, the chronicler!” the Scotsman said with a nod. “Where is Mr. Holmes? I must speak with him.”

“I am right here,” said Holmes, who was now standing with hands clasped behind his back. “Come and have a seat, and do try and calm your nerves, Mr...?”

“David Daniels,” our visitor replied.

“Mr. Daniels,” said Holmes extending his arm, “please, sit.”

I fetched our guest a glass of brandy as he settled on the long couch. Taking it quickly, he downed the liquid and asked for another. After obliging, I replaced the bottle and sat opposite Holmes as our guest dried his mouth with his sleeve. After several deep breaths, the man appeared more composed.

“Now,” Holmes began, “what brings one of London's most successful business man to our bohemian abode?”

“You know of me, I see,” Mr. Daniels said. “But I would abandon my fortune, my business ventures, all my success to escape this horrific fate that has befallen me.” He took several deep breaths. “Mr. Holmes, I have found myself terrorised by a ghastly creature; a creature known only as The Goblin Man.”

I looked at Holmes, but his expression remained firm.

“Have you heard of him?” Mr Daniels asked.

“The Goblin Man?” Holmes questioned, “Watson, hand me my index, would you?” I did as he asked. Holmes flipped through his papers. “Ah, yes. Reports of a Goblin Man have been present for some time. He is reported to work in dark alleys. He chases his victims, binds them, strips them of their possessions, and leaves them. Reports, though often given by women of questionable nature or drunken men, say he has a large nose...”

“Big green eyes,” interrupted Mr. Daniels, “yellowish skin covered in boils, ratty clothes which consist of a dirty cotton shirt, a red velvet waistcoat, checkered trousers, a long natty jacket, and a battered top hat. His hands are like ice, and his fingernails are long and sharp and black as coal.”

Holmes and I gazed upon our guest. His description of this Goblin Man sent chills down my spine.

“He sounds like the stuff of fairy tales, something the Brothers Grimm might have crafted,” I said breaking the silence.

“You've seen this man then, have you?” asked Holmes.

“I have,” Daniels admitted. “He is my tormentor. He is the demon that stalks me in the night, chases me till I can no longer run, but he never hurts me or takes anything from me. He has touched me once, no more. I feel him always behind me. His presence lingers when awake, sleep is a struggle for the Goblin haunts my dreams. Mr. Holmes, I need your help. I need you to stop this Goblin Man.”

“And you believe this Goblin Man to be of supernatural origins? I asked.

“Heavens, no,” replied Daniels, “but he is a foul creature whether birthed in hell or not. He is very real. What I can't understand is his fascination with me; am I the only one he does this to? What have I done to deserve this torture?” His eyes drifted from Holmes and he stared into the fireplace. “I thought myself an honourable, God-fearing man, maybe I'm not.” Our guest trailed off into silence a moment. “Can you help me?” he asked, looking straight into Holmes' eyes.

“I'm going to need more details, Mr. Daniels. When did you first encounter this Goblin Man? Tell me everything.“

Mr. Daniels leaned back, his hands in his lap. “It began a fortnight ago. I was returning home after a long evening of drink and gambling at my club. The time was around midnight, if memory serves. A misty fog rolled in the air and the streets were deserted. Moving briskly with my head down and my coat collar turned up to keep dry, I did not pay much attention to my surroundings. Strange chattering and quiet giggles could be heard from behind, but when I turned around, no one could be seen. My first thought was that someone from one of the local public houses was fumbling home. Then a horrendous screech echoed through the air. That's when I saw it.” Our guest turned pale. “Standing under the yellow glow of a street lamp was the Goblin Man. His shoulders moved up and down as he breathed in and out.

“‘Who are you?' I called out, but there was no response. Taking a few steps backwards, I turned and quickened my pace. My home, which is on James Street, just off Lancaster Gate, was near. Quick steps followed me. The Goblin was chasing after me. I began to run for fear that this maniac might kill me! My terror was amplified when I realised I was leading this monster to my very doorstep. So I darted down a small path between two rows of houses. Without warning, I found myself flung to the ground. The Goblin pounced on top of me, digging his knee into my back. He wrapped his cold hand around the back of my neck and squeezed tightly.” Daniels placed his hand around his neck as if the mere memory of it caused him to relive the horror of the event. “I lay there motionless for some time.”

“‘What do you want?' said I. The man suddenly stood up and backed off. I quickly rose to my feet and faced my attacker. It was dark, but I could still see him clearly. He was not... natural looking. His face, that is, was that of a monster. ‘Who are you?' I stammered. Like a beast, the Goblin flailed his arms and let out a piercing scream. I began to run again, but he did not follow me. When I felt safe, I proceeded home. Nerves shattered, I collapsed the moment I got inside my door. I stayed home the entire next day and attempted to recover. I reported this incident to the authorities, but no other had been reported before mine. In fact the officer said there hadn't been a Goblin case since a few years back. They stationed a few extra officers within my area and assured me they'd do their best to find this man.” I noticed the slight twitch of a smile upon Holmes's face at this statement. “Well, nothing happened for a day or two. Then about four days after the first encounter, I stepped into my back garden and was horrified when I saw the Goblin Man sitting upon the stone fence. His hand dangled between his legs and his head was bent down. I raced back inside and grabbed my revolver. When I came back, he was gone!”

“And what time was this?” Holmes asked.

“It was about nine o'clock at night. I sent a wire to the police, but of course they did not prove much help at all.

A week after the first encounter, I found myself back at my club. This time my revolver was with me. I looked constantly behind me during my walk home but saw nothing. It wasn't until James Street that fear consumed me, and I saw the Goblin Man a short distance ahead. I reached into my pocket, withdrew my revolver and began to fire. Utter panic took me when I realised my revolver was not loaded! I had loaded that gun that very morning, but now it was empty! The Goblin Man held out his hand, and he dropped several small objects on the ground. They pinged as they hit the ground, and I then realised what they were. They were my bullets! How he got them is a mystery. He then chased after me. We ran for what felt like hours. He didn't appear to wish to catch me this time, as if he derived some kind of enjoyment from the chase alone. I ran, Mr. Holmes, I ran and ran until I could run no more. I fell over with aching legs and a pounding chest. After recovering my strength, I managed to make my way home. My incident was told to the police. They said they would have an officer on my street every night between nine and midnight. Their inability to do anything thus far did not ease my fear, but whom else could I turn to? Thankfully, for the sake of my sanity, the next four days passed uneventfully. On the fifth day, after this third encounter, I had prepared myself for bed, and when I stepped into my room my window, which overlooks the back, was open. A cold wind crept in and rustled the curtains. I walked over to close it but something caught my attention. I turned, and, sitting in the armchair, was the Goblin Man! I dropped my lamp and it shattered on the floor. Thankfully nothing caught fire. There, in the darkened room, the Goblin Man approached me. I could feel his breath on my face. It stank, like the smell of death.

“‘What do you want? Why are you tormenting me?' I pleaded.

“‘Don't you know?' the Goblin Man replied.

“‘No! I don't know, so tell me, damn it!' I shouted.

“‘Shouts won't bring you any aid,' he said in a slow, serpent-like voice.

“‘Leave me alone! Is it money you want? I'll pay you, just leave me alone!' I told him.

“‘Money? I don't need your money. Just know that I'm always going to be here. You can't escape me.' I turned to hit the Goblin Man, but he was too fast. He ducked, missing my swing, and threw one of the bed sheets over my head. By the time I had untangled myself, he had escaped through the window and was gone. I told this to the police, yet again. They found no clues within my room. But I can bear it no more, Mr. Holmes. This man is real and he must be stopped. Can you help me?”

Holmes sat in silence a moment or two. “Have you wronged anyone?”

“Pardon?”

“In your line of work. You have your hands in several operations. You invest in many companies, shipping, manufacturing, a few others. I need to know if you have, in all your business deals, ever wronged someone. It's better to tell me now than have me discover it later,” said Holmes coolly.

“Oh, well,” stammered Mr. Daniels. “I am an honest and ethical businessman.”

“Then you may very well be the first in history,” Holmes returned.

“Business is not about making friends, Mr. Holmes. It is about making money, and that is something I am particularly good at. But I can say there are no harsh feelings between me and any of my investors.”

“Any business partners?” Holmes asked.

“Well, I lost my most recent partner,” said he.

“How so?” I asked.

“Do you recall that explosion in East London?” Daniels asked. “The one that tore through the station. My partner, Thomas, was on the train that went up. He was a damn good man, a damn good businessman!”

“I'll take the case, Mr. Daniels,” said Holmes. “As I am sure you are aware, my rates are fixed and Doctor Watson will be accompanying me on my investigation. I will need full access to your house, your room, and I hope that you retained the bullets that this Goblin Man took.”

“Why, yes, of course!”

“Very well, I have some things to take care of and some tidying up to do. We will call upon you tonight, Mr. Daniels.” Holmes stood and walked to the study door, “Good day.”

Mr. Daniels stood and held the rim of his hat with both hands as he passed by Holmes. “Thank you Mr. Holmes, thank you indeed! I will see you later.”

Chapter 3

Martin Hewitt

The Problem At Davenport House

Autumn 1890

This was a singularly unique affair. One that happens once in a lifetime. One autumn evening when Martin Hewitt and I had found ourselves coming home from the public house, The Hare and The Hounds, we were greeted in the street by a stranger. A woman. She was tall and slender, and wore a dark blue dress with a floral design. Her hair, black, was tied up, which accentuated the severity of her face. Her sharp cheekbones, wide green eyes, and pointy nose dazzled us. She looked upon us intensely. I admit that for a moment there was a light feeling of intimidation at the strange beauty that she possessed.

“Are you Martin Hewitt?” she asked in a gentle voice.

“I am,” said Hewitt, stepping forward and extending his hand.

“I need your help,” said the woman, placing her hand into his.

Hewitt brought it to his lips and kissed it. “Well, why don't we step inside so we may talk? Perhaps, with a warm drink?”

“Very well,” she replied.

She followed us up the stairs and into our chambers. I offered her a seat and quickly took to boiling some water in order to prepare some tea. Hewitt sat with our guest and I observed from a distance.

“Now, what is your name?” Hewitt asked.

“Mrs. Clara Edwards,” she replied.

“Well, Mrs. Edwards, what can I do for you?”

“I am here on a most important request. Someone very dear to me has gone missing. I have no clue where they have gone or why they have just abandoned us. I was hoping that if I gave you enough information you would be able to find my missing associate.”

“Mrs. Edwards, you can drop the act,” Hewitt smirked. His fingertips danced on the armrest of his chair. “I know very well that the person you seek is no associate of yours, but is rather a husband, or a lover.” An expression of complete bewilderment fell upon Hewitt's client. Her face went flush and she stirred in her seat. Hewitt remained cool and calm as he continued: “I can also see you are around three months with child, and feel it safe to assume this abandoner is the father.”