Gaslight Grimoire_ Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Barbara Hambly [33]
I will not try the patience of my readers by detailing the events which Flaxman Low laid before us; Dr. James of King’s College has since provided his own account of the case, which is readily available. Suffice it to say that Mr. Julian Karswell appeared to have been a deeply unpleasant person, quick to anger, sensitive to criticism both real and imagined, and with the fire of vengeance burning within him, so much so that any who crossed his path appeared to have very real cause to fear for their safety. He was, according to Low, responsible for the death of John Harrington, and very nearly killed Edward Dunning, although Holmes refused to believe that he used supernatural means to accomplish his ends; nor did he believe that Karswell’s sudden death at Abbeville was anything other than the accident the French investigators deemed it to be. “For if a man will go walking about in a site where extensive repairs are being carried out, we cannot be surprised to hear that some mischance has befallen him,” he said, while Flaxman Low shook his head but said nothing.
Our companion had scarcely finished narrating his story when our train began to slow, and our stop was announced. We were among only a handful of passengers who alighted, and before the train had pulled away we were approached by a coachman, who nodded his head respectfully at us.
“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, and Mr. Low, is it?” he enquired. “You are all expected, gentlemen; I’ll see to your baggage if you will kindly follow me.”
We left the station and found a carriage awaiting us, a fine team of horses standing harnessed in front of it. Holmes ran his keen eyes over them.
“I see that we have not far to go to Lufford Abbey,” he remarked, and the coachman glanced at him.
“No, sir, little more’n a mile or so. You’ve been here before, then?”
“No,” interjected Low, before my friend could reply, “but the horses are fresh and glossy, which would indicate that they have not travelled far to get here.”
Holmes’ lips twitched in a slight smile. “You evidently see and observe, Mr. Low. Excellent traits in a detective.”
“I have learned from a master,” replied Low, giving a small bow. “Indeed, I may say that it was reading the early accounts of your cases, as penned by Dr. Watson, which first gave me the thought of applying your methods to the investigation of that frontier which we were discussing during our journey here. Indeed, one day it might come to pass that you are acknowledged as being as great a forerunner in that field as you are in the science of more ordinary detection.”
Our bags had been loaded in the carriage, and we climbed in. The coachman called out to the horses and we were on our way, rumbling through the main street of a pretty village crowded with half-timbered buildings which spoke of a more peaceful way of life than existed in the bustling metropolis which we had left. The tranquillity around us contrasted so sharply with the story Flaxman Low had told us in the train, and the dark deeds hinted at in Mrs. Fitzgerald’s letter, that I could not help shivering. Low, who was sitting opposite me, caught my eye and nodded.
“Yes, Doctor,” he said, as if in answer to my thoughts, “it is difficult to believe that such things can exist when the evidence of our senses shows us such pleasant scenes. I hope, in all honesty, that our clients’ case may prove to have an entirely logical and rational solution; but given what I know of the late owner of Lufford Abbey, I confess I fear the worst.”
It seemed that we had scarcely left the village behind us when the carriage turned through a set of massive iron gates, and we