Sherlock Holmes and the Servants of Hell Page 12

  “I know what it is you want, Simon,” the doctor continued. “What you crave above all else.” Now he had his arm around the man’s shoulders, leading him out of the detritus of the crate as if he was that fellow’s best friend. Lemarchand’s legs were unsteady, barely able to hold him upright, let alone carry him along. “It was simply not the right time the other day, nor the right place – and what a waste that would have been! But tonight... tonight, Simon, I have decided to grant you your ultimate wish. Your freedom.”

  Malahide began to cut the straps on the strait-jacket. Lemarchand gawped at him, and I thought for one moment the doctor might be doing just that: setting the man free. “We have already achieved so much together, you and I,” he said to Simon. “You have given me the means by which I have been allowed to communicate with my master. Your blood, the key!” Underneath, Simon was naked from the waist up and I could see the extent to which those scars covered his body, some old, some new: a repeated, vicious rending of his skin. I fancied here and there I even spotted words, as if he had been written upon; a human book of blood. But I knew that could not be – such a thing was beyond contemplation, beyond imagination. “Now... now...” Malahide stepped back, dropping the strait-jacket to the floor – and he no longer had the blade.

  Lemarchand did.

  At first I thought he’d snatched it from the doctor, just as he had the pencil from me – and I was about to cheer him on – but he was in a much weaker state than he had been a couple of days ago. It was only as Simon held up the blade, watching the light as it reflected off the metal, that I understood what he was about to do.

  “Now,” Malahide repeated, “tonight, we will turn that key.”

  I don’t know how I didn’t see what was coming next; after all, hadn’t Henri told me that the wounds on Simon’s arms were self-inflicted? Hadn’t I witnessed him attempting to do this very thing myself? To set himself free?

  Before I could do or say anything – perhaps shout through the glass – Simon had run the blade across his throat. The skin opened up and his head fell back, allowing a geyser of redness to burst forth.

  Malahide had stepped back again, but was still splattered by some of it, ruining his fine suit. Even he had the decency to pull a face at what he was seeing, what he’d facilitated; as Simon crumpled to the floor like one of his paper birds, swimming – or drowning – in his own blood... so much blood. A pool of it, gathering around him.

  Still I thought I might be able to save the poor fellow, climb in through the window and stem the bleeding at his throat somehow. But it was already too late; if nothing else, what happened next convinced me of that.

  For now someone – something – did truly appear out of nowhere. Arms shooting up out of the crimson on either side of Lemarchand, enveloping him more closely than any strait-jacket. The arms themselves were strange: not properly formed, like something I might have seen on a dissection table at medical school. There was no skin on those arms, and they glistened with moistness and slime – the brachioradialis, pronators, supinators, two fascial compartments... I reeled them all off in my head, through sheer habit as I’d learned the names of them parrot-fashion for exams.

  Then legs in a similar condition likewise emerged from that thick puddle, and I did the same: quadriceps femoris, the central rectus femoris, the three vasti... I mouthed the names of the parts as I saw them; it was the only thing stopping me from going insane.

  There could be no possible way a man might have hidden under Lemarchand, and besides it had been bare flooring – just like the rest of the Institute. But now there were definitely two figures, one beneath the other.

  Be-be-below... Kept... kept below... Beneath... I recalled Simon’s words to me. Had he been talking about this... this monstrosity? This Hellish creature that even now looked like it was devouring him alive? For he was alive, just, and if he had been able to, I think he would have screamed – as much at being deceived, being tricked (as his great-grandfather had been), as what was being done to him. He’d wanted his freedom, but at what cost? He wasn’t just losing his life that I could see, he was losing his very soul: his body deflating, absorbed by the newcomer, the wet noises of the feast on the verge of making me gag.

  In all my years, I had never seen the likes of this – and I had witnessed some pretty horrendous things, both abroad and at home, serving as a colleague to my best friend. But nothing, absolutely nothing could have prepared me for...

  Even now, thinking about it, writing about it, I find my hand is shaking – more than it usually does. I must persevere, however, for I have come this far.

  Not even Stoker could have made this vampire appear romantic. It was vile in the extreme. I wanted to look away, but could not; I was rooted to the spot, my own body betraying me. But then, I think a part of me actually wanted to see this. Wanted to know – not only what was happening, but why.

  Soon there was nothing left on the floor but the skinless man. Not even the blood Simon had spilled, for this beast had somehow sucked it all up to replenish itself. The red figure stood, slowly, taking his first breath and grimacing as if it hurt. I’m not ashamed to say I was glad of that. I recalled that I had once, in my early years, been shown a reproduction of Vesalius’ sixteenth century book De Humani Corporis Fabrica, a revolutionary Renaissance study of the human body. In it were illustrations of skeletons, stomachs, brains – but also figures shorn of their outer layers in various poses. I’d never forgotten those pictures, and I swear it was as if they had come to life right in front of my very eyes.

  Only now was I able to blink, hoping that I was simply hallucinating – my mind showing me memories as if they were real. The Institute’s influence? Or the doctor’s? Had I, too, been hypnotised somehow when I was last here? Did the vagabond’s talents extend to Malahide as well? Or maybe I’d been poisoned by some Egyptian concoction? In any event, the scene was still playing out in front of me.

  I still could not move, however, and could do nothing but stare as Malahide, looking as scared as I felt, said – only then switching to perfect French – “Bienvenue, seigneur.” Then the doctor bowed, as if this newcomer was some sort of nobility.

  The aristocrat? It couldn’t be... Even if he was still alive, that would have made him a century and a half or more old. Although not the strangest thing, I reminded myself, considering what I had just witnessed.

  “Aaah,” said the man, looking down at himself, holding out first one arm and then the other; turning them over and admiring how he had knitted himself together. Was this Malahide’s master, then? The one he’d spoken about? Perhaps the principal of the Order as well? Had all this – the deaths in London, the gallery, the pillar – been about trying to resurrect a dead French nobleman who practised Satanic worship?

  They spoke to each other quickly then in French, only a little of which I could remember and get translated once I had a chance to write it down. Something about Malahide being right about the location, the spot where the aristocrat had died. About him having forgotten what it was like to be alive, that he was hungry... And the mention of a name:

  Sherlock Holmes.

  That was it, enough to snap me out of my reverie. Monster or no monster, demon or not, I had my pistol and I was more than prepared to use it. I drew the Webley, took aim, and fired through the window three times. I’m pleased to report that even at such an awkward angle, and with a barrier of glass between myself and the skinless man, two of my bullets hit their mark, one striking him in the back, between the shoulder-blades and the other embedding itself in his skull.

  “No!” Malahide cried out, as the bloodied mess of a thing collapsed – not just to the ground, but inwards, losing coherence; losing integrity like a house of cards collapsing. I only hoped the whole Order would do the same now its leader was out of the way. In seconds, he was just a disgusting mess on the floor. The doctor’s angry gaze found me at the window and he barked, “Imbecile! What have you done?”

  Only what I had to, I t
old myself. But it was time to get out of there now; Simon was long past saving, not that he’d ever wanted the kind of freedom I could offer. I pulled away from the window, only to see lights going on all over the Institute. And those orderlies who had been guarding the box, now approaching me outside. Only a handful at first, but more were quickly joining them – I daresay they were used to reacting quickly; perhaps even had drills? The long-haired Gerard was amongst them, I noticed. “Stay back,” I warned, waving the gun first in one direction, then the other. “I still have some bullets left.”

  They’d approach, then stop when the gun was aimed at them – all the time blocking off my escape. Then one of the men rushed me and I fired, hitting him in the arm; I am not a cold-blooded killer, after all, and these fellows had not really done me any harm (for all I knew they had no idea what their employer was about). I barely had a chance to turn when I felt other men behind me, grabbing my gun arm and forcing it up in the air where the rest of the rounds were fired. I continued pulling the trigger of my revolver, even though it was empty, as I was wrestled to the ground. There were just too many of them to fight, and in the end I ceased my struggling. These were people who were more than used to – and capable of – dealing with violent patients. I was held fast.

  “Amène-le à moi!” ordered Malahide from the shattered window. I was dragged round to the front door where he was waiting, and drew back his hand; I tensed, expecting him to strike me across the face. But he paused, blew out a long breath, then let his hand fall to his side. One of the orderlies gave him my empty weapon, which he looked at as if someone had just handed him a live snake. “Doctor... Doctor... Whatever are we to do with you?”

  “You could let me go,” I said wearily.

  “I think not,” came the reply. “You are clearly a very dangerous man – and in urgent need of our help.”

  “What are you going to do, bundle me into the box?” I said. “Slit my throat?”

  Malahide laughed. “Of course not, Dr Lane. Or perhaps you would prefer ‘Watson’?” I tried to hide my shock at that, but didn’t do a very good job, judging from the look of satisfaction on the man’s face. “Oh, yes, I know exactly who you are. An impostor as well as an intruder.”

  (He could talk – as I later found out, Malahide was not his real name either, though he was a Frenchman, through and through.)

  I struggled, looking around; thinking that at least some of these people must be legitimate, otherwise Malahide would just act openly against me. “Look, can’t you see what’s happening here? The man is evil, he is in league with demons – see, he even has blood on him!”

  “You were firing your gun at me!” Malahide retorted. “Of course there is blood! One of your bullets managed to graze me.” He did not offer to show the orderlies his wound, and anyway there was too much crimson on his front for that to be the truth. Nevertheless, they seemed to accept his account. Some probably didn’t even require an explanation, those who were in Malahide’s confidence – and I was definitely counting Gerard among their number.

  I resisted again, craning my neck to see behind the doctor.

  “What are you – ? Oh,” said the man, shaking his head. “I think maybe you are looking for your little friend Henri. I am sorry to say that he is no longer with us. We had to part ways after you left; he had become a... disruptive influence on Monsieur Lemarchand.” He didn’t come right out and say that they’d killed him, but the implication was there. Henri had heard too much that day to remain alive.

  “Ah... now, ask him about Simon. Get him to show you Simon.”

  “Doctor, look at the hour. Simon will be in bed, asleep, as all our patients are – or were, until you began with your antics.”

  “You can’t, because he’s dead. You used him to summon the skinless man and –”

  “Listen to yourself! Demons, skinless men! I think it is time we settled you in. Nurse!” Malahide called back over his shoulder and a woman with dark hair came trotting up to him. “Bring me something to help soothe the troubled fellow.” She nodded and returned moments later with a syringe.

  “Get away from me with that or I’ll –” But I could do nothing and I knew it. Malahide administered the drug – I still do not know what it was to this day – and I began to immediately feel its effects. Everything suddenly had a blurry edge to it, and it was hard to focus. I had never understood Holmes’ fascination with narcotics, but if anything was to put me off them, it was that experience at the Institute. When Malahide spoke again, his words were deep and echoing.

  “There, now, that’s better. Let’s get him inside, shall we?” As I was carried in, I noticed Malahide whispering to Gerard. Then, once those huge front doors were closed again, Malahide told members of his staff to go and see that the patients hadn’t been disturbed too much. This left only himself, Gerard and one of the other orderlies with me: a man who had a definite air of the military about him. The doctor’s employees took one of my arms apiece and slung them over their shoulders, dragging me as Holmes and I had tried to carry the barman back at the Vulcania.

  They took me down the corridor, which telescoped out ahead of me, courtesy of the doctor’s drugs. “Whe... whar...” I was trying to ask where they were taking me, but I wasn’t even sure my mouth was opening and closing, let alone forming the words and saying them out loud. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, because they were taking no notice of me. We paused at the lift Henri had introduced me to when I first arrived.

  I tried to move, to break free of the men – but it was useless. Malahide dismissed the extra orderly and only he and Gerard accompanied me inside the cramped box, where he reached into his pocket and produced a key, sliding this into place in a hole beneath the control mechanism. Instead of clanking upwards, the lift began to descend. My stomach lurched and I felt sure I was going to throw up.

  When the cage shuddered to a halt, the doors opened again and Malahide stepped out, with Gerard hauling me from the box behind him. I could hear the noise almost as soon as I was out: the screams, the cries, the whimpers. The sound of excruciating pain and loss of all hope.

  The only light down here came from flaming torches on the walls, but even through my drug haze I knew exactly where we were.

  This was a dungeon.

  And yes, as I was taken down this corridor I saw barred cells on either sides, the stone flooring covered with straw. Some of the people imprisoned here were chained to walls – and not in the way those paying customers were back at the Vulcania, either. They were at impossible angles, some stretched, some hanging forward so that their shoulders jutted out behind them. None of them looked like they’d eaten in weeks.

  A few were free to roam about their cells, though some were running into the walls. I saw some wearing the same kind of strait-jacket Lemarchand had on – and others with their hands free, to claw at themselves. One, in particular, upon our approach, ran to the bars and grasped them tightly. He was trying to speak, but only mumbles were emerging. It was then that I saw the stitching running around his bald head, where someone – presumably Malahide – had opened up his scalp and delved around inside, turning him into something akin to the creature Mary Shelley wrote about.

  Yet more were strapped to trolleys with thick restraints – as I was carried past, one unfortunate’s head lolled sideways to gape vacantly at me, his mouth foaming, a hole in the centre of his forehead which looked as if it had been drilled. And one was strapped to a chair, with cables running from it – which, every couple of seconds, delivered jolts of electricity that caused him to rise up in the seat, then slump back down. How long that had been going on for, I had no way of knowing.

  We... we are all j-just... toys... Be-be-below... Kept...kept below... Beneath...

  Help free... Please! Freedom...

  This was what Simon had been talking about, these people and the hideous experiments going on here that no-one knew about. These poor, tortured souls. The doctor had been right about one thing, this wasn’t the Spa
nish Inquisition – this was much, much worse.

  “Come on,” Malahide called back to Gerard, who hefted me and picked up his pace. “Almost there.”

  I don’t know whether it was the drugs or not, but when I turned my head I thought I saw another figure in the nearest cell on my right. He was slumped against the far wall, and looked in a similar state to the aristocrat – skin removed, but much less mobile. The figure had used its finger to write something on the wall in its own blood, which reminded me of the lettering I had seen in crimson during my first ever investigation with Holmes. The message was:

  Help me. I am in Hell.

  Then I was dragged past and I had no way of knowing whether the whole ordeal had happened. But I did not doubt at the time that this was indeed Hell...

  If only I had known it was merely a precursor.

  “In the Chamber with him for now, I think,” Malahide told his underling, and I was taken to a room at the end of the corridor, full of equipment and instruments. Some of it looked old, some of it new – some medical in nature, some designed for doing the worst kind of damage to the human body in order to extract information. Spikes, chains, electrodes: this place had them all.

  I was relieved of my outer clothing, left in my undergarments, and then shackled to the wall. Malahide lifted my drooping chin and said, “I look forward to working with you, Dr Watson. Or should that be working on you?” He laughed.

  I growled back, managing to spit a couple of words out, “The aristocrat!”

  Malahide cocked his head; he understood my meaning. All this was worth it, if it meant I had cut the head off the snake. “Oh, my dear Doctor – he is not dead, if that’s what you believe. Yes, you have delayed things, I admit. But I shall continue with my labours. I will use the blood to bring him back again.”