The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part XI Page 8

  As I studied the heap of ashes, I could not keep the incredulity out of my voice when I exclaimed, “My dear Holmes, the heat required to reduce a human body to mere ash can only be created in a proper crematorium. Even so, after the bones are incinerated, they must be pummeled with heavy tools in order to reduce them to an ashy state.”

  “I am well acquainted with mortuary practices,” murmured Holmes. He was going about the room, looking at this item and that thing, taking in every detail with his piercing grey eyes. I knew him well enough in those days to understand that he was mentally cataloging every iota of datum, every detail, whether in place or out of place. Little, I was sure, would escape his notice. But what to make of it all? That was the question.

  “If this woman died in this rocking chair, why is the wood not also incinerated?” I demanded.

  “Why was the bed in which the late Mrs. Vanderlip was found burnt alive also untouched?” Holmes turned to the fire officer and asked, “Are you acquainted with that case?”

  “I presided over the investigation,” the man returned. “The poor woman was found in bed, reduced to a collection of disassociated arms and legs. There were some portions of her skull and jaw that survived, although they broke apart up on handling. Other than that, nothing but ashes, greasy fetid ashes.”

  “Yet the bed clothing, and her covering quilt, survived.”

  Claverling grunted, “The quilt was scorched, but the linen beneath the body bore only a blackening caused by close contact with the greasy ash remains.”

  Stupefied, I interjected, “Had she had not time to fling off her quilt and endeavor to escape the flames that consumed her?”

  “That was not the conclusion I came to,” admitted the fire official with evident reluctance.

  “Impossible!” I blurted out.

  “I would be inclined to agree with you, Watson,” said Holmes flatly. “Except the literature is full of similar cases, going back many years. I consider myself to be fortunate to have been granted access to the death scene whilst it is still fresh.”

  I looked up from the ashes. “Do you propose to solve this enigma, Holmes?”

  “I propose to investigate it thoroughly. Whether I solve it or not remains to be seen, for it most baffling. The circumstances seem to defy reason. Even if one could admit to the possibility that a human being could spontaneously burst into such ferocious fire that almost nothing remains, how to account for the surroundings remaining relatively untouched?”

  “If I did not stand here as witness to the aftermath,” I said somberly, “I would dismiss it as a figment of a drunken journalist’s imagination. Poe could not have conjured up such a nightmarish scenario.”

  “May I,” inquired Holmes of the fire official, “appropriate a sample of ash for scientific study?”

  Claverling hesitated. “It is highly irregular, Mr. Holmes. But since you would like to speak to the landlord, I will go and fetch him now. What you do in the interim is your lookout.” He gave the pile of ashes a regretful glance. “I daresay the poor woman will not miss any part of her mortal remains, such as they are.”

  “Thank you,” said Holmes.

  The fellow departed and Holmes removed from a pocket a stoppered vial. He employed it to scoop up some of the greasy matter that remained upon the scorched seat of the rocking chair. He availed himself of a liberal portion, then stoppered the receptacle, quickly pocketing it.

  When the fire official returned, he poked his head in, saying, “Mr. Merridew prefers not to enter this room. Would you kindly step out to greet him?”

  With a last wondering look at the flat, Sherlock Holmes exited, and I at his heels. I was glad to leave the death chamber. It was the most grisly charnel house I have ever imagined. Just being in it made me fear for my safety.

  Merridew the landlord met us outside. He was a nervous chap, pale and quivering, and bathed in the perspiration of his agitation.

  The fire official made formal introductions.

  “This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He is a detective, but not officially with Scotland Yard. He would like to ask you several questions.”

  Merridew became flushed of face, and perspiration made his features shine oilily.

  “I smelt that sickly sweetish order and I at once began going about the building, knocking on doors, endeavoring to locate the source of it. We have eight apartments let in this building, Mr. Holmes. As you can well imagine, a fire would be disastrous.”

  “An ordinary fire would, of course,” said Holmes. “But this was no ordinary fire. I imagine you realize that by now.”

  Merridew patted his moist forehead with a sopping handkerchief. “I do not know how to take this event. It is beyond my ken. I forced the door when I realized the odor was coming from the room of poor Miss Wick. I was driven back by the smell, but then steeled myself. There was a candle burning. But nothing otherwise. I saw that ashy pile upon the chair but did not understand its significance until I came upon the shoe containing a dismembered foot. The surviving fingers I missed until I was told about them later. How this could have happened, I cannot conceive. Nor the why. What on God’s green earth could have brought that woman to such destruction, yet spared the building?”

  Sherlock Holmes studied the man and said, “These are the questions of the hour. As for answers, I do not have them, nor do I imagine they will be easy to come by. Tell me, how long was Miss Wick a resident here?”

  “Five, almost six years. She was a widow. She had a younger sister who visited frequently, but very few friends. He spent a great deal of her time alone.”

  “Very well. Tell me of her drinking habits.”

  “I am not intimately acquainted with them. But I have noticed empty bottles of gin in her rubbish. I did not consider their number excessive, although they appeared with predictable regularity.”

  “Now, did you ever know Kathleen Wick to be drunk or disorderly?”

  “Never!” the man said firmly. “She was a model tenant. Paid on time. Troubled no one. Was friendly enough, but kept to herself a great deal of the time. Her sister is a lovely woman, and I’m sure she will be heartbroken about the news.”

  “No doubt, no doubt,” mused Holmes. “I noticed the ring on one of the surviving fingers. A garnet. Were you familiar with it?”

  “Yes, I knew the ring well. She wore it from the first day until her very last hour.”

  “So you were certain that the remains, such as they are, belong to Miss Wick?” prodded Holmes.

  The poor fellow nodded vigorously. “What damnable and ironic fate would so snuff out a healthy woman bearing such a name?” he raged. “It is enough to make one wonder about demons and the like. It smacks of some damned grisly jest.”

  “I would tend to agree with you, Mr. Merridew,” said Holmes. “And if there was a jest, there is there must be a jester. Would you not agree?”

  The distracted man tore at his hair and cried out, “If such a mad jester stalks London, what manner of monster could he be?”

  “If it will ease your mind,” said Holmes reasonably, “the fate of Miss Wick is not unique, even if it is extraordinary. But I feel confident in asserting that, once the remains are removed from this dwelling, and it is properly scoured of unpleasant residue, your present troubles will be entirely behind you.”

  Merridew took comfort in Holmes’s reassuring words. “Oh thank you, oh thank you. This has been the most distressing and disagreeable day of my entire existence.”

  Returning to the fire official, Sherlock Holmes said, “I will take my leave now. I would like to express my gratitude for the opportunity to examine the scene of this inexplicable occurrence.”

  Claverling nodded deferentially. “Should your inquiry produce any illumining facts, Mr. Holmes, the superintendent would be gratified to hear them in full. Good day to you.”

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nbsp; I was relieved to be departing the neighborhood, which we did on foot until coming across an idle hansom cab. We secured it.

  “What do you think, Watson?” Holmes asked as we made our way back to Baker Street.

  “I am staggered, Holmes. This is beyond my understanding. All of it. Have you any thoughts? Any inklings of what could have transpired in that chamber of hellish horrors?”

  “I will offer this, Watson. There is a pattern to these occurrences. And what I observed today only confirms that pattern. Previous examples of spontaneous destruction of living persons by fire are alike in certain particulars. The victim is older, sedentary, often burdened with adipose tissue, and inclined towards consumption of spirits.”

  “Do you suspect that the regular consumption of alcohol lies at the heart of this enigma?”

  “Only as a preliminary line of investigation. I rather doubt John Barleycorn will accept the full weight of responsibility. But it is a point from which to begin serious inquiry.” He turned to me and asked, “Tell me, Watson, do you still have friends at the London Hospital Medical College?”

  “Many,” I replied. “Why?”

  “I imagine I will need a human cadaver or two upon which to experiment,” he returned dryly. “I wonder if you would be so kind as to make for me certain introductions toward that aim?”

  I was so staggered by the casual request that I was unable to summon up an answer for some minutes.

  “Well, it is highly irregular, Holmes. But I will endeavor to aid you to that end. What do you propose to do with these cadavers?”

  “Why, I propose to burn them in various ways. Is that not self-evident?”

  “Be good enough to do so outside of the confines of our shared quarters,” I requested sincerely.

  “That’s a good fellow, Watson. It would not be fitting to have to dig up my own specimens, as it were.”

  The coachman was pulling up before 221b Baker Street when these words were uttered.

  I distinctly recall staring at Holmes’s enigmatic profile, aghast. I did not ask the question forming in my brain. Namely, if it came to it, would Sherlock Holmes resort to the dishonorable practice of grave robbing to achieve his scientific objectives? I could not convince myself that the detestable practice was beyond his imagination.

  Over the next few weeks, Holmes experimented on the ashes of Miss Wick, and acquired a cadaver which he selected from several sad specimens known to have had a history of excessive consumption of alcohol.

  I readily admit that I did not inquire often as to his progress. But his experiments occurred under the watchful eyes of certain medical authorities. I understand that he burned portions of the deceased using various chemical agents and accelerants - all to no avail.

  I learned of this late one evening when I found him smoking his black clay pipe furiously. It was a sign that he was vexed.

  “No progress, Holmes?” I inquired.

  “None to speak of,” he returned gruffly. “No matter how I try, I cannot duplicate the circumstances that brought Miss Wick to her fiery doom.”

  “You are not giving up?”

  “Not giving up, no,” he said somberly. “But when no progress is made, the mental machinery begins to clutch up and overheat. I may turn my attention to other problems and come back to this odious matter on a later occasion.”

  “What if, as you say, the spontaneous incinerations are a recurring event? Perhaps another will happen along to aid you in your inquiry.”

  Rather testily, Holmes dismissed the idea. “What I observed has been observed before. I think it unlikely another such death will add to the inventory of knowledge. But if such a case comes along, of course I will fling myself upon it. I merely doubt that another specimen will permit me to penetrate to the heart of the matter. The facts as they stand are both incontrovertible yet unsupportable by known science.”

  “You admit to the possibility of supernatural explanation?”

  His reply was biting. “I admit no such thing. But I am forced to go outside of the normal channels of scientific thought. At the heart of this lies two mysteries: What would cause a human body to combust without outward sources of ignition, and how did the surroundings escape the fiery fate of the unfortunate victim?”

  “It is devilishly baffling,” I allowed. “But I agree that a respite is required. One cannot contend with the inexplicable for long, especially if progress is not being made. A change of mental scenery might allow you to look at the problem from a fresh perspective.”

  Yet even as I spoke those words, the expression on Sherlock Holmes’s countenance suggested a dog chewing at the bone stronger than his teeth. I recognized that he was not ready to let go of this particular bone.

  “Facts are stubborn, Watson. Very stubborn. Normally they are the building blocks for theory, the rungs of the logical ladder I must climb in order to achieve a solution. In this case, the facts fight one another like oil and water in solution. They refuse to combine. They will not cohere. Yet they cannot be separated, once mixed. If I could but uncover fresh facts to add to the potion, perhaps I could induce a reaction that would make all clear and simple. I fear that it is impossible in this case.”

  Holmes puffed away furiously, his expression a complicated knot of flesh and sinew.

  “Had this occurrence been unique,” he went on disconsolately, “I might have a better time of it. Perhaps I could drag in a culprit. Or possibly affix a motive. But Miss Wick was not the first victim of this phenomenon. Nor will she be the last, I imagine. The repeating pattern is what vexes me most. It can only mean that this is an old problem, possibly even an ancient one. I cannot look to the novelty of modern life for a solution. This may be a natural condition of the human body, and not anything external to it. But no substance can I find that will incinerate human flesh, reducing it to ash, yet not affect the surroundings appreciably.”

  “Alcohol is not the culprit, I gather.”

  “Dash it all!” snapped Holmes. “Alcohol is the most prominent feature in these damnable cases, yet I have immersed human muscle, bone, and every imaginable organ in it, but all organic matter refuses to burn in any meaningful way.”

  I felt for my friend. He was truly at a loss. His ways where those of logic and science, data and facts, and observations and inductions. None of these tools were helping him now. His natural skepticism, as sharply as it had been honed, had encountered a brick wall that could not be pierced by its probing keenness.

  In an effort to be helpful, I said, “I imagine you have ruled out lightning.”

  “I can rule nothing out!” he said sharply. “Nothing! The fact that there were is no electrical disturbance on the night Miss Wick perished inclined me to rule it out. But alas, I dare not. It is abundantly clear that the victims in all cases I have reports on ignited suddenly and died at once. They did not have time to flee, only to combust and disintegrate. If I could ascribe such a feat to a bolt of lightning, I would happily do so. Regrettably, the literature provided me with no thunderstorms, no bolts from the blue, as it were. But if I could not admit lightning to my theories, neither can I exclude an electrical origin. Strive as I might, Watson, I cannot eliminate the impossible. I am at a loss. A dead loss.”

  So there of the matter stood for many months. Sherlock Holmes moved on to other cases, earned notable successes, and so his reputation grew.

  Less than a year had elapsed when word was received of the second such horrible occurrence.

  I half expected it, but not so swiftly. According to Holmes, these things happened at random intervals. There was no predicting when the next charred corpse would manifest.

  Holmes came by where I was serving as a locum late one afternoon in a highly excitable state.

  “Watson! Come quick if you have no patients. If you do, send them home. Another incinerated person has been di
scovered!”

  “Where this time?” I asked, reaching for my coat and hat.

  “In the very same room where Miss Wick perished!” Holmes said excitedly, all but dragging me out into open air.

  “My word! Who is the victim this time?”

  “Elizabeth Wick, the sister. She moved into the rooms shortly after they were made available. Apparently, she took some spiritual solace in doing so. Unfortunately, it led to her doom.”

  A cab was waiting and Holmes bundled me into it. His energy was astounding. I have known him to go through weeks of lethargy, and periods of high activity. Now he was a veritable dynamo.

  The horses dashed through town and we came up before the dismal rooming house which looked outwardly as it had before.

  Claverling the fire officer was there. He greeted Holmes somberly.

  “I knew you would come, Mr. Holmes.”

  “And so I am here. I see Mr. Merridew is at hand.”

  “The poor beggar is shaken to his core. He is beside himself. Inconsolable. A second tragedy, and his thoughts are running wild.”

  “I will leave him to regather his wits. First I must see the room where the event transpired.”

  “It was by the fireplace this time,” said Claverling. “Come, I will show it to you.”

  As we mounted the stairs, I noted a grayish haze, so different then the bluish one from before. As we approached the shut apartment door, the smell in the close air also differed from the previous incident.

  For the place was redolent with the stench of burnt flesh. It was a very different, yet an equally disagreeable smell. Previously, I had considered the atmosphere to smell like cooked fat.

  Of course, a burnt human being might emanate either or both odors. But I thought it so noteworthy that I called this to Sherlock Holmes his attention.

  “Do you notice the odor?”

  “Yes. It is very similar to that of roast pig. I am told the Polynesian cannibals who indulge in the consumption of their fellow human beings liken the taste of human flesh to that roast pork.”