Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes by Jeff Campbell, Charles Prepolec Page B
Authors: Jeff Campbell, Charles Prepolec
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and Low nodded. “My friend and I were not previously acquainted with Mr. Low, but a fortuitous chance has ensured that we had an opportunity to discuss the matter — so far as we know it — on the way here, and I think I may safely say that we see no difficulty in combining our efforts.”
“Mr. Holmes is quite correct,” added Low. “While we may differ in certain of our beliefs, we are united in our determination to put an end to the difficulties which you face.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” said our host, relief sweeping across his face. For a moment the look of anxiety left him, and I was able to see traces of the good humor which I suspected his countenance usually wore. “I cannot tell you how relieved we both are to hear this. Of course, we really must explain why it is that…”
“Yes, we must,” interrupted Mrs. Fitzgerald, firmly but kindly. “However I do not think, John, that the front drive is the place for explanations.”
“Of course; you are quite right, my dear.” He turned and smiled at us. “Forgive me once more; my manners have quite escaped me. The maid will show you to your rooms, and then we will lay all the facts before you, in hopes that you will see light where we see only darkness.”
Less than half-an-hour elapsed before we were assembled in a pleasantly furnished sitting-room with our host and hostess, and provided with refreshments. Both Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald seemed to take pleasure in the everyday ritual of pouring tea and passing cakes, and for a moment their cares and anxieties seemed to fade in the flow of casual conversation around them.
“Yes,” said Mr. Fitzgerald, in answer to a question of Low’s, “there was an abbey here, although nothing of it now remains apart from a few relics housed in the parish church. Most of it was destroyed in 1539, and what little was left — mainly stables and the Abbot’s lodging, from what I gather — has long since vanished. Some outlying domestic buildings were the last to go; according to village gossip there was an old man who, early in the eighteenth century, could still point out the sites of some of the buildings, but this knowledge appears to have died with him. I cannot think of another similar monastic house which has disappeared so completely from the ken of man.”
“You are a student of such things, then?” enquired Holmes.
“In a very modest way. Being a gentleman of leisure, I have the time and opportunity to indulge myself in that way; and have a natural inclination towards such subjects, tinged with melancholy as they are. Parts of this house were built very shortly after the abbey was dissolved, and I suspect that many of the stones from the original monastic building found their way into the construction of it, hence the house’s name. Inigo Jones added to it in the seventeenth century, so we find ourselves in possession of a very interesting piece of our country’s history.”
“And in possession of something else, it appears,” said Low. “Your letters, however, provided little by way of information on that point.”
Mr. Fitzgerald’s face clouded, and there was a sharp clatter as his wife placed her teacup somewhat unsteadily in its saucer. “Yes,” our host replied after a moment’s pause, as if summoning up strength. “The truth is, gentlemen, that I — we — found it very difficult to convey the facts of the case in a letter.”
“What my husband means, I think,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald, “is that the recent … events here sound, on paper, so inconsequential that they would appear laughable to someone who has not experienced them.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Fitzgerald,” said Low earnestly, “that none of us are inclined to laugh. I know something of the man who lived here before you, and informed Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson of the facts surrounding him, and the manner of his death. It is not a laughing matter.”
Husband and wife glanced at each other. “We are agreed,” said
“Mr. Holmes is quite correct,” added Low. “While we may differ in certain of our beliefs, we are united in our determination to put an end to the difficulties which you face.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” said our host, relief sweeping across his face. For a moment the look of anxiety left him, and I was able to see traces of the good humor which I suspected his countenance usually wore. “I cannot tell you how relieved we both are to hear this. Of course, we really must explain why it is that…”
“Yes, we must,” interrupted Mrs. Fitzgerald, firmly but kindly. “However I do not think, John, that the front drive is the place for explanations.”
“Of course; you are quite right, my dear.” He turned and smiled at us. “Forgive me once more; my manners have quite escaped me. The maid will show you to your rooms, and then we will lay all the facts before you, in hopes that you will see light where we see only darkness.”
Less than half-an-hour elapsed before we were assembled in a pleasantly furnished sitting-room with our host and hostess, and provided with refreshments. Both Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald seemed to take pleasure in the everyday ritual of pouring tea and passing cakes, and for a moment their cares and anxieties seemed to fade in the flow of casual conversation around them.
“Yes,” said Mr. Fitzgerald, in answer to a question of Low’s, “there was an abbey here, although nothing of it now remains apart from a few relics housed in the parish church. Most of it was destroyed in 1539, and what little was left — mainly stables and the Abbot’s lodging, from what I gather — has long since vanished. Some outlying domestic buildings were the last to go; according to village gossip there was an old man who, early in the eighteenth century, could still point out the sites of some of the buildings, but this knowledge appears to have died with him. I cannot think of another similar monastic house which has disappeared so completely from the ken of man.”
“You are a student of such things, then?” enquired Holmes.
“In a very modest way. Being a gentleman of leisure, I have the time and opportunity to indulge myself in that way; and have a natural inclination towards such subjects, tinged with melancholy as they are. Parts of this house were built very shortly after the abbey was dissolved, and I suspect that many of the stones from the original monastic building found their way into the construction of it, hence the house’s name. Inigo Jones added to it in the seventeenth century, so we find ourselves in possession of a very interesting piece of our country’s history.”
“And in possession of something else, it appears,” said Low. “Your letters, however, provided little by way of information on that point.”
Mr. Fitzgerald’s face clouded, and there was a sharp clatter as his wife placed her teacup somewhat unsteadily in its saucer. “Yes,” our host replied after a moment’s pause, as if summoning up strength. “The truth is, gentlemen, that I — we — found it very difficult to convey the facts of the case in a letter.”
“What my husband means, I think,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald, “is that the recent … events here sound, on paper, so inconsequential that they would appear laughable to someone who has not experienced them.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Fitzgerald,” said Low earnestly, “that none of us are inclined to laugh. I know something of the man who lived here before you, and informed Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson of the facts surrounding him, and the manner of his death. It is not a laughing matter.”
Husband and wife glanced at each other. “We are agreed,” said
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