Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes by Jeff Campbell, Charles Prepolec

the rules of which we do not comprehend and can only vaguely grasp, in flashes, as our unready senses catch broken glimpses of things which obey laws we cannot understand. One day, perhaps, this other world will be understood, and mapped as fully as any known country on earth; until then we can only advance slowly, storing away pieces of the puzzle in hopes that they can be fitted together in the fullness of time.”
    It was an extraordinary speech to hear in the prosaic surroundings of a first-class carriage rattling through the placid English countryside; but Flaxman Low’s earnest face and steady voice carried a conviction that it was impossible to ridicule. I could tell that my friend was impressed despite himself, and when he replied it was in a tone more restrained and conciliatory than would have been the case only a few minutes earlier.
    “Well, Mr. Low, we must agree to disagree on certain points; but I look forward to the experience of working with you on this case. Perhaps, if you would be so good, you might tell us more of Mr. Karswell.”
    “But what can he have to do with this?” I interjected. “He died almost a year ago, and surely can have nothing to do with the matter in hand.”
    “Possibly not,” said my friend, “but the fact remains that a man who appears to have died in questionable circumstances, and who himself may have been involved in the death of at least one person, has left behind him a house which is now, in turn, the scene of mysterious occurrences. This may prove to be mere coincidence, but it is not something an investigator can ignore. The more facts with which we are armed, the more likely that we shall bring Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald’s case to a speedy — and satisfactory — conclusion.”
    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