AS I SIT TO PLACE THE HISTORY OF MY ADVENTURES with Warlock Holmes on paper, it necessarily follows that I must pause to reflect upon my actions. I am generally proud of them. Yet, when the light of retrospection shines down upon any man’s past, it is bound to cast one or two unsightly shadows. This is one such case.
Ever since the conclusion of our first mystery, I had labored under the resolution to teach Holmes the process of deduction. He had used it—but not well—to explain away his demonic insights on the first day I met him. I had since seen him make the same attempt to other fellows. Though Holmes had a good facility for lying, he had never bothered to learn the tricks of observation, inference and deduction that he claimed mastery of. Therefore, several men had seen through his lies and this caused Holmes to fear his true nature might one day be discovered by the wider world—an event likely to be followed by torch-waving, pitchfork-brandishing lynch-mobbery such as would be remembered for all ages. Thus, I took every opportunity to demonstrate observation and inference to him. I may have taken it too far, on occasion.
I remember, we had just returned from Regent’s Park to find Mrs. Hudson standing outside the door to our rooms, brandishing a battered tobacco pipe at us and complaining, “He wouldn’t stay! I told him wait an’ he said he would an’ then a second later, he up and walks out again, leaving this still smoking on the side table. Almost burned me curtains, he did.”
“Who did?” I asked.
“Man with the pipe,” she said, eyeing me as if I were an imbecilic child.
“That is not helpful, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Go easy, Watson,” said Holmes. “You can hardly have expected more, eh?”
“You don’t think so?” With a huff, I snatched the pipe from our stunted landlady and turned it over once or twice in my hands, examining it.
“The man who owns this pipe is left-handed, just as you are, Holmes. He has a strong grip and good teeth; he is not wealthy, but comfortable enough not to have to worry about extra expenses. He is a man who prizes old comforts, but not enough to take care to preserve them.”
“I can do better than that,” Holmes scoffed. “Hand it to me.”
As he stepped forward to take the pipe, his coat began billowing about his frame in a manner that foretold a fairly impressive demonic consultation was about to begin. I placed a hand against his chest, held the pipe away from him and said, “I do not doubt, Holmes, that you could find a way to tell me the man’s name, his hair color, his favorite tie and what he ate for dinner last Wednesday. That is not the point. The point is to learn as much as you can from the clues presented to you.”
“That is the hard way,” he complained. “Besides which, I can do better.”
“You can’t! I won’t let you. Listen, Holmes… See how the pipe is singed down its right side? No simple match does that; he likely lights it from a burner or—since that is liable to sear the hand—a gas lamp.”
“So?”
“See how the burns are all on one side? That means he must have held it on the other. Observe how my hand covers them if I use my right. He must therefore regularly hold this pipe with his left. He has gnawed all down the amber of the stem; to leave such marks, he must possess a strong bite and good teeth.”
“I don’t care about such things, Watson.”
“Well you ought to, or you will be caught!”
“Caught at what?” asked Mrs. Hudson.
“Nothing!” Holmes and I said together. Mrs. Hudson frowned even harder and made her way out. At least she had a good sense of when she was intruding—a pity it did not stop her doing so whenever the chance presented.
I tried a different tack. “Here, Holmes, hold the pipe in your left hand and see if you can tell me why I suppose the owner has a strong grip.”
He gave a huff to indicate that he was only doing so to humor me, then took the pipe from my hand. At first he seemed uninterested, but as he turned it from side to side, I could see his curiosity getting the better of him.
“Your thumb is on it, right now,” I prompted.
“Yes… It’s this silver band, I suppose. It seems a touch jagged and irregular. What is it?”
“Well done, Holmes! It is a repair. With only the strength of his thumb, our man has accidentally snapped off the stem of his pipe, then had it repaired with silver. Such a repair would cost more than the pipe had originally. Also, it would take more time than simply purchasing a new pipe, but he was willing to go to the expense and also to stand the wait. Why? Because he loves old, familiar things.”
“But not enough to keep him from thrusting them into gas lamps.”
“Precisely, Holmes! By Jove, we shall make a detective of you yet!” I clapped him on the shoulder and he beamed proudly at me, but our reverie was cut short. Before either of us could utter another word, a tall man in his late thirties or early forties came up the stairs and swept past us. He marched into our sitting room, flung himself upon one of the armchairs by the fire, heaved a sigh of annoyance and began patting down his pockets.
“Who is that?” inquired Holmes. “What is he doing?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “but I would suppose he is searching for his lost pipe.”
Holmes and I followed our strange visitor into our chambers. I held his pipe out towards him and asked, “Were you looking for this, sir?”
“I was!” he said, at first delighted. Then his expression returned to one of annoyance and he asked, “How did you get it? Who are you?”
“I am Dr. John Watson and this is Warlock Holmes. We live here.”
“Capital! You are just the fellows I came to see! I must… Hang on a moment… Did I knock?”
“You did not.”
Our guest threw his hands up and cried, “Ah! I am sorry, gentlemen, heartily sorry. The truth is I am so put out that I cannot concentrate. I hardly know where I am and I’ll be dashed if I know what to do with myself.”
“Perhaps we can help, Mr. Munro,” I offered.
“Yes, I… By God! How did you know my name?”
“It is written inside the brim of your hat, which is turned towards us.” I fixed Holmes with a look that said he ought to remember this trick and endeavor to repeat it whenever possible.
“Ah. Yes, so it is,” said our guest, with a nervous laugh, “Mr. Grant Munro. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise,” said I.
“I came because I have seen Mr. Holmes’s name in the paper. I will confess: I previously made sport of you, sir. But my wife seems to think you one of only a few in London who possesses a true understanding of the world at large.”
“She sounds like a wonderful lady.” Holmes beamed. He joined Munro by the fire, sinking into the remaining armchair. I took a seat on the sofa.
“She is. And—as it is she whom I wish to consult you about—I chose to follow her advice and seek your help above all others.”
“I shall do my utmost to justify her confidence in me,” said Holmes. “Now, tell all. What has upset you so?”
“My wife! Now, I understand that the fashion is for a man to care for his wife but also maintain a certain aloofness. Ask most men and they will tell you they love their wives, but they will also speak of how they are henpecked. They may accuse women of pettiness or smile at the failings of what they call ‘the weaker sex,’ but I will not. I love my wife, gentlemen, and I tell you that I never did anything to deserve so fine a companion. She dotes upon me! She sees to my every whim and care. She cooks my meals, brings my tea and slippers, she rubs my shoulders when I am distraught and listens to my every gripe, though I know my problems are often petty. All the while, she treats me as if I am the best, most noble creature that ever walked the earth. Well, I protest that I am not, but she very well may be. We have known one another three years now and spent them each declaring the other to be our better. We live in a state of mutual worship.”
“It sounds like the ideal match.” I smiled. “Why, if man could design himself the perfect companion, it sounds as if your wife would be the result.”
“It does,” said Holmes, though some thought made him crease his brow as he said it.
“But now she has become distant,” Munro wailed. “Something which I do not understand has come between us and… Oh God! What shall I do? I cannot bear the thought of losing her, gentlemen. I do not understand what has happened and I do not know what to do and I dread the consequences!”
“Calm yourself, Mr. Munro,” I urged. “You must tell us exactly what has upset you so. When did it begin?”
“Well, the first thing—the first strange thing I can think of—occurred about six weeks ago. She came to me and asked if she might have some money. She asked if she might have a hundred pounds.”
“What for?” I wondered.
“That is what I wanted to know,” said Munro. “Understand, that if she had wished to purchase the world’s most expensive biscuit, I should not have protested. The money is hers by right. She was a widow when we met, just recently arrived from America. She’d been left well-monied by her previous husband and when we wed, she insisted on transferring all this wealth to me. It and all she owned belonged to me, just as she belonged to me, she said. Of course I protested that it was not her money that had captured my interest. She said she knew it was not, but that I must take it anyway, for I was master now.”
I shook my head and declared, “I have read of such things in cheap romances, but I never thought a real flesh-and-blood woman might do such a thing. What do you think, Holmes?”
He was lost in thought, distant and worried. “I do not suppose a real woman would, Watson.”
“But the important thing,” Munro continued, “is that she didn’t tell me why she needed one hundred pounds. We had never kept secrets before. I tried to put it out of my mind, but over the following weeks the thought would return and vex me. What could she be keeping from me? But then, the day before yesterday, I had another shock that almost chased it from my mind. My home is in Norbury. On our lane is a little cottage, which had been vacant since we moved in, but which had just begun to show signs of life. As I passed the cottage that night, I cast my eyes up at it, wondering who my new neighbors might be and when I should call upon them. Just then I saw… the thing…”
Here he stopped and wrung his hands for a few moments. With no trace of judgment or humor, Holmes asked, “What kind of thing?”
“Silly. So silly to say… It was only a face—a man’s face, I think—but there was something about it, Mr. Holmes. It seemed… false somehow. It was rigid and… well, I cannot describe just what was wrong with it, but as I beheld it I had the feeling that it had come for me from a long, long way away and I would never be free of it. Well, I ran right home to tell Effie all about it—”
“F.E.?” Holmes interjected.
“Yes. My wife—Effie.”
“You married a Final Edition? Cad! Sorcerer! Anthromancer! Get away from him, Watson!”
At this, Holmes rolled out of his armchair, crashing to the floor. His left hand groped towards the fireplace until it chanced across the coal scuttle, which Holmes snatched up and flung at our guest, scattering bouncing pieces of coal across half the sitting room.
“Holmes!”
“I… I don’t understand!” cried Munro. “Have I said something wrong? Effie is only a name—my wife’s name!”
“Not a particularly uncommon one, I think you’ll find,” I added, raising a warning eyebrow.
Holmes would not be soothed. “But think of the creature he describes, Watson! She is totally devoted to her mate! Devoid of free will, she dedicates all her effort, all she owns and all she is to her husband, without reserve. You yourself doubted that a real woman would do such a thing, Watson. You are right! You asked whether—given the chance to design their ideal mate—men would not create exactly such a creature. Don’t you see? They did!”
“Holmes is possessed of a magnificent imagination,” I told Munro.
“Anthromancers,” Holmes continued, contorting his hands into disgusted claws, “lonely malefactors—twisted creators of the saddest creatures that live. No woman would touch such a dark practitioner, Watson, so they turned their forbidden arts to the creation of one that would! The first generation was easy to spot; they had rubber skin. The Nexus Twos were halting automatons with immobile smiles they had no power to change. The Nexus Fours were simple pleasure models, but the Sixes were an impressive achievement. Just before their cabal broke up, the anthromancers produced a few Final Edition Nexus Sixes, capable of giving them their deepest, most chilling desire—heirs.”
“I apologize for my friend…”
“He is a wicked sorcerer, Watson!”
“But I am not!” Munro protested. “I am a simple hop merchant!”
“Hops?” Holmes roared. “What are those? Are they vile?”
“They are plants, sir, used in the brewing of beer.”
“Huh… Is that all?” said Holmes, visibly confused. “Well… beer is slightly vile, I suppose. You are sure you’re not a sorcerer?”
“Preposterous,” said Munro.
“I could have sworn…” mumbled Holmes, returning to his chair.
Realizing the time was ripe for me to regain control, I said, “Regardless of my friend’s wild theories, I am curious to know how Effie reacted to the news about this rigid face.”
“She told me I was being silly and must not be worried by such things. Yet she was much disturbed by the news. She seemed near tears all through dinner, but I could not draw the cause of this anxiety from her. When we went to bed that night, she did not sleep. Eventually I nodded off, but I am sure Effie lay still awake. I was unsettled and slept lightly. I awoke around three in the morning, to find Effie just removing her cloak. She smelled of cold night air and I could tell in an instant she had been outside.
“‘Wherever have you gone?’ I asked her.
“‘Only to take a walk along the lane,’ said she, then paused and added, ‘Grant, I may need more money.’
“Well, I was very interested to know why she had suddenly begun the habit of walking the lane at night and what had occurred there to convince her she needed funds. She would not tell me. She said she could not—that she was bound by promises that pre-dated the ones she had made to me and which she had no power to break. She enjoined me not to worry and said that, if I did as she said, our happiness need not be interrupted. Well, that set me in a highly worried state and I pleaded with her until the dawn to tell me what was happening. She would not be moved and so, as the sun began to rise, I climbed from our bed to begin my work day.”
“You must have been exhausted,” said Holmes.
“I was, but more than that, I was distracted. As I passed the cottage, I noticed lights in the downstairs window and a shadow upon the curtain. I had the feeling that whatever was bothering Effie might have to do with the new occupants. Since they were up, I resolved to meet them. I went up to the door and knocked. In a moment there was a bustling, then the door opened to reveal a… how shall I describe her… a tough old battleaxe of a woman. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, stern and with little time for interruptions, but what stood out about her were her injuries.”
“Injuries?” said I.
“Yes. She had a tremendous bruise on her neck that ran down under her collar. One arm hung limp and seemingly useless. And her face! She had the most magnificently scratched face—as if she had just lost an argument with a jaguar. She stared at me, but said nothing.
“‘Hello,’ I said, ‘I am your neighbor, Mr. Grant Munro. I just wanted to stop by and welcome you to the neighborhood. If there is anything you require while you are settling in—’
“But she cut me off! She said, ‘We’ll call if we need ya,’ in the most horrible American drawl and shut the door, right in my face. As I trudged back down the path to the lane, I turned back and saw the man again at the upstairs window. I was closer this time, so I just made out a pencil-thin moustache and slick black hair, but again, it seemed rigid and immobile to me.”
“Could you tell the age of this man?” I asked.
“No,” said Munro. “I only remember dwelling on how unnaturally white and shining his skin seemed. He was at the window only a moment, then disappeared. I don’t mind telling you, gentlemen: I was distraught. I did not go to work, but instead to the local inn, where I took a little food and an early draught. I sat and pondered what I should do. Soon it was almost lunchtime and I had no stratagem. I elected to simply head back and ask Effie what she knew of the cottage’s occupants.
“I made my way back home, but when I got there, Effie was gone! The maid looked affrighted to see me. When I asked her where Effie was, she said her mistress was taking the air and would be back presently. She then got me settled in my chair with a warm cup of tea and asked me to wait. I found myself too anxious to comply, so I stood and began to pace. When I passed the window, what should I see but our maid, hastily running down the lane towards the cottage! I realized Effie must have gone there and set the maid to warn her if I returned home. I set out after her, but by the time I had my shoes and coat on, she had already reached the cottage. When I got there, I did not knock or wait for entry. I flung open the door and stepped inside, resolved to confront my wife, my maid, the scratched-up crone and the strange man in the upstairs room.”
“Did you?” asked Holmes, leaning forward as the tale quickened. He was practically at the edge of his seat.
“No! There was nobody there! No one! I ran to the upstairs room and found it empty. It was in a terrible state and I could hardly believe anybody would be living there, but on the windowsill I found a photograph in a silver frame. It was a portrait of Effie, which I had commissioned only three months before!”
“Sorcery! Witchcraft!” cried Holmes.
“No, it isn’t,” I said. “Think, Holmes: if Effie does indeed have dealings with the strange new neighbors, might she not have taken the picture over herself?”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Well, you should have. This fact is far from supernatural, but it does prove two things. First: Mr. Munro is right and his wife’s recent disturbance is tied to the appearance of the new neighbors.”
“Second?” asked Mr. Munro, eager for any relief of his anxiety.
“That whoever resides in the upstairs room knows Effie well enough to desire a picture of her. I have begun to form a theory, but I would like to hear the rest of Mr. Munro’s tale before I speak of it. Pray, continue.”
“Well, I suspected they must have escaped out the back door as I approached the front,” said Munro, “so I ran out after them, towards the woods. As I neared, who should emerge but Effie herself.
“‘Grant, you must not go in there,’ said she. ‘If you do, all our happiness is ruined. Please, just a little more time and more money and we can live untroubled.’
“I tried to push past her, but she blocked my path and threw me back. I tried again, but she threw me—bodily threw me—away from the woods. We were both in tears at that point and I stumbled clear. I did not know what to do, Mr. Holmes. I wandered. Eventually I found my way here. I have not seen my home or my wife since yesterday afternoon and I cannot guess as to their state.”
“Guessing will not be necessary, Mr. Munro. The light of reason shall reveal all,” I said. “Now, I wonder if you could tell me more about Effie’s past. You said she was a widow when you met her?”
“Yes. She had a husband, back in America, and a daughter too, sadly. Sad, I say, because they both died of yellow fever.”
“I see. And this husband, what do you know of him?”
“Well… his name was Hebron—Octavius Hebron.”
“An unusual name,” I noted.
“Perfect for an anthromancer…”
“Holmes, shut up. Please continue, Mr. Munro.”
“Well… Effie always speaks well of him, but every time a conversation turns his way, she spends half her time making excuses for his behavior. It embarrasses me to speak ill of him, for I still enjoy the fruits of his investments, but I think he treated Effie quite badly and if I had the chance to meet him, I would like to bloody his nose.”
“Have you ever seen proof of this husband?” I asked. “Either his life, his death or his marriage to Effie?”
“I have multiple stocks with his name and signature, a copy of the marriage certificate—by which right Effie claims the funds of his investments—as well as a birth certificate for their child and a death certificate for Hebron himself.”
“And you believe these documents to be genuine?” I asked.
“Well, there is one discrepancy,” said Munro, rubbing his chin. “Though Hebron’s death certificate lists yellow fever as the cause, Effie says it is not correct. She once told me that that diagnosis was only arrived at because of the yellowed color of his body, but that he had actually died in childbirth.”
“He?” I asked.
“Yes. He. Hebron.”
“And what aspect of childbirth, Mr. Munro, do you suppose might be fatal to the father?”
Munro shrugged and said, “Well I don’t know, do I? You are the doctor. I know nothing of what goes on in the birthing room and—let me tell you—now that I know what became of Octavius Hebron, I am even less likely to wander into one to find out!”
“In that, you show your wisdom, sir,” said I. “As a medical doctor, I can tell you that the birthing room is no place for a husband. Having the father present destroys marriages. He who can walk out of a birthing room with any shred of desire left for his wife is the same man who can walk out of a slaughterhouse hungry for a steak. Many of my medical contemporaries lament that Elizabeth Blackwell or any of her sex were ever granted a medical degree, but I am firmly of the opinion that we need more lady doctors, as fast as they can be trained. Let the schools be filled with them! Let them take over the job of birthing and let us male doctors wash our hands of it—and we would wash them thoroughly indeed. We would scrub and scrub. We would heave a collective sigh of relief heard round the world and thank our gods that the womenfolk were now left in sole possession of their own secrets—those sticky, stinking, screaming, bleeding, pushing, howling, juicy secrets which…”
I became aware of Holmes and Munro staring at me.
“Ahem… Well… I have digressed, gentlemen, but the fact is clear: as a medical doctor I can confidently state that no danger to the life of the father is posed by the act of childbirth. Octavius Hebron’s cause of death is false. His death certificate is false. And I feel sufficiently sure to say his death itself is false. Mr. Munro, I believe him to be alive and seeking to reclaim his fortune from your wife.”
“By God!” Munro shouted. “That would explain it all!”
“Would it?” said Holmes. “I just don’t see it, Watson.”
“Holmes, how can you not? We know from the photograph that the person in that cottage has a personal relationship with Effie. We know that Mr. Hebron’s death certificate is patently false. Ah! A thought occurs! What if Octavius Hebron conferred his own name on a stillborn child? Thus, the child’s death would result in a death certificate in Hebron’s name! Let us also remember the sometimes-fatal condition of jaundice, which is common in newborns and results in a marked yellowing of the skin. Effie says she is bound to her mysterious antagonist by promises older than those she made to Mr. Munro, suggesting her previous vows of fidelity to a first husband. We know that she tried to throw money at this person in the hope that they would go away and she has hinted to Mr. Munro that she intends to do it again. This jibes well with the notion that her tormentor is indeed Octavius Hebron. Since she is in possession of his thousands, he is unlikely to settle for such a paltry sum as Effie first delivered. The situation obviously causes her some distress, as she has twice expressed that she wishes this episode resolved so that she and Mr. Munro may be happy together.”
“And thank God for that,” Mr. Munro interjected. “If the worst comes to pass, he can take his money and go. I don’t care, so long as I keep Effie.”
“You really are quite attached to her, aren’t you?” asked Holmes with a sympathetic smile.
“I told you I was,” said Munro, “and it will be a relief indeed if she still favors me. Oh, I hope it is exactly as you say, Dr. Watson. I shall return home at once and confront them both! Let me keep her love and I will chance whatever else may come!”
“Have a care, Mr. Munro,” I advised, “my case is incomplete. Even if the situation is as I think, there are many questions still unanswered. Why did Hebron fake his death? Is there some hidden advantage he has gained by his obfuscation? What is his final goal? We assume it to be the recovery of his funds, but have no proof of it. No, if you are to confront him, I suggest you do not go alone into his den. Go in company. Go in force.”
“What, shall I raise a militia?” Munro laughed.
“No need,” said Holmes. “I can tell from his zeal that Watson is volunteering our services. Isn’t that so, Watson?”
“There is a train for Norbury that leaves within the hour. I propose we board it, gentlemen, and see this mystery through to its conclusion!”
“Bravo!” cried Holmes.
I will now confess a certain lack of empathy, on my part: my eagerness to see the case through had nothing to do with Mr. and Mrs. Munro’s happiness. I merely wished to teach Holmes a lesson. In the train we were all excited, but I had the especial glee of one who was about to prove a point. As we neared Norbury, Mr. Munro became ever more nervous. So did Holmes.
“I wonder if we have prepared as much as we ought,” Holmes said.
“I have my pistol, if it comes to that,” I reminded him.
“Yes, but if he is an anthromancer, he may have made one or two modifications to himself, which—”
“Holmes! Stop this nonsense! Here in a public place, in front of a man you have only just met, you spout the very hocus-pocus you fear people will associate with your name. Well if they do, you have only yourself to blame! You must learn the lesson of Ockham’s razor: entities must not be multiplied beyond necessity. In other words, the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. This tale has no need of demons or hobgoblins to make it whole; it makes perfect sense without them.”
This seemed to cause him discomfort. He shifted in his seat for a few moments with a knitted brow. After a while he said, “Well… you make a good case, Watson. And I will admit that I have learned much from you in only a short time. Perhaps my… peculiar history has rendered me incapable of understanding the mundane. Do you think it is a flaw in my perspective that leads me to imagine that wicked, supernatural phenomena underlie our daily strife?”
“Yes. I do think that.”
“Oh.”
As we neared the mysterious cottage, my mind was set, my heart was true and my resolve unshakeable. The same could not be said of my companions. Alighting from the trap we had hired, Munro and I spotted a woman sitting on the cottage front step, looking down the lane towards us.
“She is waiting for me!” he gasped, and suddenly he began to trail guiltily behind Warlock and me, occasionally muttering something like, “To have brought strangers… Whatever will she think?”
I strode straight up the lane with Warlock by my side. “Effie Munro?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied. She was a tall woman, lithe and athletic with nary a wrinkle upon her face nor trace of gray in her hair, despite the troubles that assailed her.
“Stand aside,” I said. “On behalf of your husband, we mean to search this house until the truth is known to us.”
“Intruders will not be tolerated,” Effie Munro said in an even, factual tone.
This had a strange effect on Holmes: he left my side and slunk back to join Munro. Though my companions’ will had failed, mine held. Approaching her, I declared, “I say again, stand aside!” I laid a gentle but forceful hand upon her shoulder to guide her out of my path to the door. Suddenly I had the sensation of one hand on my coat collar and another on my belt. Almost too fast for the eye to follow, her dainty foot kicked my right leg out from under me, then returned to reprise the deed against my left. I had no chance to fall. She yanked me bodily towards the very door I had sought to reach, but swung me back away from it in a wide arc and flung me off the front step, over the fence and into a cow pasture.
I remember my thoughts as I flew: surprise and dismay, but not for the reasons one might assume. It took only an instant to recognize that the amount of force that had just been applied to me was far in excess of that which is commanded by any normal woman (for that matter, any normal man and I think most gorillas). This I took in my stride. No, the thing that bothered me most was being wrong. I had been so methodical and—let me admit—I had thought myself awfully clever, until just a few milliseconds before. How was it that Holmes was right again? How was it that his flawed, ridiculous anti-logic should prove superior to my deductions?
This self-piteous line of reasoning lasted exactly as long as it takes an airborne Londoner to travel thirty feet or so into a muddy field. It was finally arrested by the ground, which also stopped my physical form with a bone-jarring crunch. I have never been so glad to find myself hurled into the mud. If the field had been rocky, I’m sure my spine would have been dashed to powder. I rolled over a few times and slid to a halt, accompanied by the sound of applause. This latter emanated from Warlock Holmes, who clapped like a six-year-old lad at the circus, shouting, “Oh! Marvelous! I had heard the Final Editions were impressive, but I hadn’t realized…”
“Intruders will not be tolerated,” F.E. Munro repeated.
“And what of me, Effie?” Grant Munro cried. “What of the husband you say you love so well? Will you fling me aside too?”
“Probably not,” said Holmes. “She says she is still bound by old loyalties, but when she promised herself to you, she was effectively transferring ownership. If you order her to stand aside, she may.”
“Is that true, Effie? If I ordered you aside, what would you do?”
The automaton stood for a moment, then said, “My first husband once told me that to love unconditionally and obey unconditionally was the basis of a woman’s nature—”
“Chauvinistic and untrue,” Holmes noted. “But then, it is the basis of a romantically purposed homunculus’ nature so… do continue.”
“—so I knew how much I would love you—the day we met, I knew. What I never expected was to be loved in return. It is so nice, Grant. It’s wonderful. I do not know how I would survive if I were forced to return to a life of loving without being loved in turn. I do not know how I should go on without you. Yet, if you walk through this door, I fear that will come to pass.”
“What can be inside, Effie? What is it you feel is strong enough to break our bond?”
“I cannot tell you. Oh, Grant, go away! Please! Come live with me in our house down the lane. Let loose with some of the money from time to time and let me come here in the evenings for an hour or so. Do that and never think of the cottage—it is the only hope for us.”
I think I gasped aloud. Such had been the last few months of my existence that I almost expected to see demons. But to see a grown woman ask her husband—straight to his face, ask him—for permission to give her body to her hated ex-husband once a night so that her new marriage might be uninterrupted… Well, that is a thing I thought never to see.
Yet the impropriety of the thing seemed not to matter to Grant Munro—at least not as much as the fact that a secret would still lie between him and his beloved. “No!” he cried. “Stand aside, Effie! I will discover this secret and I will love you in spite of it!”
“Oh, if only that could be true.”
“You cannot hide such a thing from me! Let me pass, I say!”
Effie hung her head, which began to bob with arrhythmic jerks. She stepped to one side. “Go then,” she said. “It has been good being loved by you, Grant. So good…”
With tears in his eyes, Grant Munro stepped past his wife into the cottage. Holmes moved to follow, but stopped ere he crossed the threshold to ask, “Just to be clear, F.E., what should happen if Watson or I try to go inside?”
“Intruders will be tolerated,” she whispered.
“Capital. Come along, Watson.”
My first impression of the cottage was that it was so still, so lacking in the fundamental heat and movement of life, it must be uninhabited. I saw no sign of the much-abused American woman, nor of the mysterious pale man, but Grant Munro knew better. With fierce resolve he mounted the steps, moving inexorably towards the room at the top of the stairs and the strange face that had haunted him so. I had not yet caught up to him when he reached out and turned the doorknob, so I could not see what lay inside, but I heard the terrible shriek that issued forth from the room. Grant Munro recoiled in terror. Bounding to the top of the stairs, Holmes and I at once looked in to behold F.E.’s secret.
The beast stood barely more than three feet tall. It had a more or less human form, though it was bulbous and possessed of elbows and knees that seemed to flex in both directions. Its skin was bright yellow. It hissed at us, revealing a maw of irregular fangs. It turned and bolted for the windowsill, where it kept its secret identity: a battered Guy Fawkes mask with white skin, black lacquered hair and a pencil-thin moustache. This it thrust on, to cover the shame of its monstrous face, then turned back towards us, seemingly unsure whether it was wisest to hide or to attack.
From behind me came a voice that was at once calm, yet despairing. I had not heard F.E. climb the stairs behind me, not until she announced, “Gentlemen, this is my daughter.”
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” said Holmes, amiably. “Now I get it! So, Octavius Hebron really did die in childbirth.”
“He was not the only one,” F.E. confirmed. “For years I believed I was the only one in the room to have survived. But my midwife, unbeknownst to me, was a witch. She used her skills to preserve not only her life, but also the life of my child, who was raised in a coven these past three years. Only recently did they manage to track me down to England and deliver the news that my daughter yet lived. Midwife Eleanor—whom you met, Grant—promised to bring her if I paid their fare across the ocean, which I did. I installed them here, hoping to be near enough to split my affections between the two people I owed them to—my daughter and my husband—knowing that if the two ever met, I should lose all. Now Eleanor is fled, my secret is revealed and… it’s all coming down, Grant. All is ruined!”
As she spoke, Grant Munro’s gaze drifted between her and the hissing yellow beast that crouched in the corner. I can hardly describe the stress that played across his face. He blinked. He sweated. When F.E. was done he said, “Well…” He looked at Holmes and then at me, but we had no answer for him—a fact we both decided to communicate with helpless shrugs.
“Well,” he said again and suddenly his voice was filled with a shaken confidence. He stood to his full height, straightened his shirt, and walked towards the hideous half-breed three-year-old.
“It seems you and I are at an impasse,” he told it. “The love between a mother and child is nature’s closest bond. By such measures, you have a stronger claim on Effie’s affections than I. Yet, despite that right, I can tell you that I adore her far too much to surrender her to you. I refuse to let you steal my wife from me. I can think of only one course of action.”
He paused to straighten his already straightened shirt, held out his arms and said, “I am your father. My name is Grant.”
Warlock smiled. F.E. burst into tears. The child huddled in the corner, unsure of what to do. It would not approach Munro until he held one hand back towards the doorway and beckoned F.E. to join them. Once its mother was present, the child had no further fear. The three of them embraced.
“What do you call her, Effie? What is her name?”
“She has none. Her father was to have named her, but…”
“Well, I am her father now and I think…” Grant Munro smiled down at the yellowed girl. “I think we shall call her Amber.”
A tap on my shoulder compelled me to turn my attention to Holmes, who softly said, “Our work is done.”
I nodded and turned back towards the stairs.
Outside, raindrops were falling. A glance skyward told of more and heavier soon to follow.
“Our carriage is gone. It must be at least an hour’s walk back to the train station,” I complained.
“Look on the bright side, Watson,” said Holmes, “perhaps the rain will wash some of that mud off you.”
I would have laughed, but he was not joking in the least. I pulled my half-crushed bowler down low, turned my muddied collar up against the rain and set off into the gathering downpour. Warlock followed.
Halfway down the path, I muttered, “You were right, Holmes.”
“Yes… well… never mind that, though.”
“That is kind of you,” said I. “And yet… if ever I should become overzealous, or place too much confidence in the power of my reason, I hope you will lean close and whisper ‘Norbury’ in my ear. I would be indebted to you, Holmes.”
We walked in silence and in rain.