Gaslight Grimoire_ Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Barbara Hambly [93]
“Moreover, I now appreciate the reason that Openshaw could project his thoughts into my mind only when we were in the same room and why he had to be present on the tug to be able to fatally confuse the thinking of those murderers. As you noted in your published account, he was but two and twenty when he met his death. His mind was nowhere close to reaching its full potential, so the power of his emanations was limited. I, on the other hand, have honed my mind over the years to such a degree that I will no doubt be able to project my thoughts over great distances and continue my work on behalf of the living.
“You wonder what all this has to do with the question I posed to Openshaw’s spirit about you. Well, let me ask you a further question in turn. What caused you to draw your revolver on Preston Road and spin about, thereby no doubt saving both of us from serious injury and possibly even death?”
“I had a sudden premonition of danger. I don’t know why.”
“I do. Openshaw says he shouted a warning at you. You perceived it instantly in the most primitive portion of your brain, the part that prompts us to flee or fight. And being Watson, you fought.”
I did not intimate to Holmes that I accepted this explanation nor did we discuss it again. But in the years following I observed Holmes talking to the thin air on numerous occasions. As for myself I subsequently held many fascinating discussions with a certain doctor who had become quite famous as a writer.
The Entwined
The Entwined
by J. R. Campbell
She strode across the neatly trimmed grass, immune to the charms of the day around her. Spring was in full bloom, the wind rustling the leaves in the trees and carrying the season’s fresh scents to the fortunate and unfortunate alike. Her feet were bare as she walked across the lawn; tracing out a path perceived by none but her. She walked with her head bowed. Whether to watch the rise and fall of her hesitant steps or to shelter her frighteningly pale skin from the sun’s warmth I could not say but her posture and slack expression telegraphed an utter disinterest in everything and everyone around her. The pleasant English countryside unfurled its full lush glory but, for all the pleasure she took from it, a bleak, arctic wasteland would have served her as well. Slender and pale, her wispy hair tousled by the breeze, she seemed almost insubstantial until she turned her remarkable brown eyes to you. Confronted with the depths of those ravishing eyes a man realized this young woman was meant to be beautiful. In those dark eyes was a promise unfulfilled, a potential thwarted by the insidious affliction from which she suffered.
Dark circles gave her face a hollow-eyed aspect. Next to her pallid skin, even the grey clothes of the asylum appeared bright. Her footsteps, her translucent skin, her painfully thin form all but lost in the asylum clothes, all combined to make the young woman insubstantial. Seeing her I found myself in agreement with the opinions I had read in her case file. The poor creature suffered from nothing which food and rest could not cure, nothing save a flaw in her mental process preventing her from accepting that which her body craved. We followed her unnoticed, despite my friend Sherlock Holmes’ attempts to gain her attention.
“Miss Drayson!” Holmes, impatient and frustrated, called once more. He moved to stand directly before her. She lifted her head slowly, careful not to lift her feet from her unseen path as she dealt with this interruption.
“You must be Sherlock Holmes,” Catherine Drayson said, offering the detective a shy smile. “I trust you received my letter?”
“Yes,” Holmes said impatiently. “However I do not understand what it is you require of me.”
Her smile, so small a thing, slipped from her features as she examined my friend. “I thought I had explained myself adequately, Mr. Holmes,