Gaslight Grimoire_ Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Barbara Hambly [56]
“And were inherited by Ferregamo?” I asked, hardly daring to believe the implications.
“Had he not taken it, I daresay I should have suffered the same ghastly fate, a notion that should give fuel to my nightmares for some years to come.”
From the tone of his voice, I knew that Ruber was mightily pleased with himself. “I was worried you might not have picked up on the little clue I left you — I never even saw you examine the paper I was writing on — but when word reached me about Ferregamo’s death, well … I knew you’d done exactly what I’d wanted you to do.”
“It was not as though I had any choice in the experience. Once you led me to him, I found I could do nothing but give him your painting. With the assistance of Watson here, I swore off the evils of cocaine because I disliked the sensation of not being in control of my thoughts and senses. All the works you created under the alias of Algernon Redfern — they were meant for Ferregamo, were they not?”
I had some vague notion of what Holmes was driving at, but it seemed simply too fantastic to credit. “What do you mean, Holmes?” I asked. “What are you saying?”
“I am saying that Ruber here…”
“Felix Ruber, in case you were wondering,” the man in the darkness interrupted.
“Very well,” Holmes continued, “Felix Ruber, you see, has … an ability. I cannot classify it scientifically, but it seems that his paintings are somehow able to affect their owner — adversely, I need hardly add. Hence, Mrs. Serracoult’s fiery demise, the mysterious disappearance of James Phillimore, the invisible creature that clawed its way out of Molinet’s stomach, and so on. You have a very vivid imagination, sir, if more than somewhat disturbed.” Holmes touched my sleeve. Whether he could see my response or not, I nodded my understanding.
“Given that you have achieved your goal,” he asked, “would you at least satisfy my curiosity and tell me your story?”
“If you’re hoping that my story will contain an explanation of my gift, I’m afraid you’re destined to be disappointed, Mr. Holmes. But why not?” As Ruber spoke, I began to take short, silent steps, tracking the voice to its source. “I was living on the streets of Vienna, when I first met Julius Ferregamo. I was little more than a child, trying to make money any way I could. You might think you’ve seen some terrible things today, gentlemen, but believe me, nothing can compare to the horrors I experienced growing up. Ferregamo was there to see what artwork he could snatch up for the so-called civilized world. The man was no better than a vulture. He’d heard some talk about my work … my abilities. You’d think that would have made me blessed. But once the word spread, life became impossible … I was the miracle-worker, the modern-day messiah. Believe it or not, I simply just wanted to paint. It is what I do, what I am. Ferregamo promised me a new life, away from that hell. I believed him. But he just wanted to use me like all the others. To be richer than he already was, to see his enemies crushed. It was my job to see that those things came to pass.”
I remembered that Ferregamo had somehow retained his position as the premier art collector in London, perhaps even in Europe, but his competitors had all come and gone. Now I had some inkling of how they had gone. “So … you simply paint something and it happens?” I asked, and instantly regretted doing so. Had I given away my position?
“Not quite, Doctor. You have to possess the painting to feel its power. People must have thought Ferregamo was a very generous man — he was always giving them gifts.”
“And those gifts were your paintings,” Holmes responded. “Then you were his accomplice.”
“I was his prisoner! Locked in a cell in his home, with a guard watching over me at all times. But finally, during my one mealtime a day, I was able to scratch a drawing into a metal plate with my fork — it was a drawing