Sherlock Holmes Page 10

  “I’d be delighted,” said Holmes, most graciously.

  Foxton turned on the spot, extending his hand. “And correct me if I’m wrong, but you must be Dr. Watson?”

  “Quite so,” I said, taking his hand.

  “You’re most welcome,” said Foxton, with a broad, genuine grin. “It’s not often I have such interesting guests.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, leaning closer. “It’ll be nice to have something other than business to discuss, for a change.”

  “Mr. Holmes is terribly interested in Seaton’s machine,” said Angelchrist. “He’s seen some of the photographs the boy’s produced, and I gather they’ve rather snared his interest.” Angelchrist glanced at Holmes, a wry smile on his lips. “Is there any chance, you think, that we might be able to persuade Seaton to offer up a little demonstration?”

  “Of course, gentlemen!” said Foxton enthusiastically. “I’m sure Seaton would be only too happy to demonstrate his machine. In fact, I’d wager he’d be grateful of a new audience. Most of the chaps here have already seen it, and he’s short of willing subjects.” He looked from me to Holmes. “In fact, why don’t I show you through now? That way you can talk to Seaton all you want before dinner, and then afterwards I won’t feel bad about monopolising your time.”

  “Perfect,” said Holmes.

  “I’ll keep Percy here company in the meanwhile,” said Angelchrist, with the considered sigh of a martyr, “so that you and Newbury can take a proper look at the machine.”

  “My thanks,” I said. I could see just how much of a sacrifice he was making – Newbury had been backed up against the window, and looked as if he were about to lift the sash and dive through at any moment. I watched as Angelchrist expertly manoeuvred himself into the conversation and allowed Newbury to withdraw.

  “Right, gentlemen,” said Foxton, when we’d gathered a moment later. “Seaton has a workshop on the other side of the house. This way.” He set off in the direction of the main hallway.

  I followed behind, glancing over my shoulder to see Angelchrist already deep in conversation with Cranston, his expression reminiscent of a startled deer.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Underwood’s rooms comprised a series of three interlinked chambers in the east wing of the house, set apart from rest of the manor. As we entered through a side door, following behind Foxton, it became abundantly clear why. Their appearance was quite extraordinary.

  What had once been Raventhorpe’s second drawing room or study had become… well, it was difficult to describe. The place was positively bursting with ephemera.

  Bookcases lined two of the walls, but had long ago been filled beyond their intended capacity, and had since begun to disgorge themselves, giving rise to heap after heap of leather-bound tomes and pamphlets on every waypoint in the paranormal and mystical sphere: mesmerism, magnetism, spiritualism, hypnotism, transmigration of spirits, the art of the medium, and many other queer and arcane subjects. There were also substantial volumes on physics, chemistry and the organic sciences. A large globe sat in one corner, partially obscured by a red velvet drape. A human skeleton was wired up on a frame just inside the doorway, staring forlornly at us as we filed into the room, and at least five or six colourful birds hopped around in assorted cages, some hanging from the ceiling, others propped on tables or stands.

  Most unusually, the windows had been plastered over with pages and pages of scrawled notes, diagrams and photographs, some of them now terribly faded and illegible from their exposure to the sun. The light was provided by a series of electric floor lamps, placed at random intervals around the room.

  It seemed to me more like a lair than a place of scientific endeavour, although in many ways I was reminded of those hazy days at Baker Street, and the proliferation of Holmes’s books, notes, specimens and chemistry equipment which had cluttered up the place. Underwood’s rooms had the same sort of chaotic, obsessive quality that can only be born of years of dedication to a cause. The main difference was that Underwood had expanded to fill the space afforded to him by virtue of living at a manor house.

  A thin, gangly man, with sandy hair – whom I took to be Underwood – was hunched over a small upright desk, peering into the lens of a microscope. He was wearing a stained white shirt, which had come untucked from his trousers and was hanging loose around his waist. He looked dishevelled and somewhat wild.

  “Gentlemen, I’m delighted to present my ward, Seaton Underwood,” said Foxton.

  Underwood looked up, and the expression of displeasure on his face was impossible to miss. Despite Foxton’s claims to the contrary, he was clearly not grateful for being disturbed in the midst of his studies. He surveyed us quickly, and then returned his attention to his microscope.

  Foxton gave a polite cough, and Underwood, clearly in deference to Foxton’s wishes, got up from where he was sitting and came over to greet us.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, with a forced smile. His voice was thin and reedy, and he had the look about him of a man who had seen very little daylight in recent weeks. His flesh was pale, and his eyes were bruised pits, dark and unseemly. I’d seen men of this countenance many times during my years as a medical man, and I would not have been surprised to discover he was a habitual abuser of laudanum.

  I glanced at Newbury – a man I knew to have previously indulged in such filthy habits – and the look on his face told me that he agreed with my evaluation. Holmes, no doubt, would have already deduced the same.

  Foxton introduced us, and explained to Underwood that we were interested in seeing a demonstration of his spectrograph generator.

  “Ah, yes. More parlour games,” said Underwood, bitterly.

  “I assure you, Mr. Underwood, that I have more than a passing interest in the work you are doing here, and have little time for parlour games,” said Newbury, smoothly stepping in and redirecting the conversation. “My name is Sir Maurice Newbury.”

  Underwood’s eyes seemed to light up in recognition. “How interesting,” he said. “I am aware of your work, Sir Maurice.”

  “And I yours, Mr. Underwood,” replied Newbury. Underwood smiled, his mood clearly softened by Newbury’s masterful flattery. I glanced at Holmes, whose expression was giving little away. “I’ve seen the results of your labours, Mr. Underwood – prints of your ‘spectrographs’ – and was hopeful you might spare us a moment for a demonstration. My friends and I,” he turned to us, indicating Holmes and me with a wave of his hand, “would be most grateful.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” said Underwood, suddenly animated. “If you’d like to come this way.” He ushered us around a long table covered in photographic prints – which I now knew to be spectrographs – and through an open door into an adjoining chamber.

  Here the clutter was less apparent, but the eccentricity continued. Two bookcases lined the far wall, also overflowing with mouldering volumes. Heavy velvet curtains had been pulled across the windows, causing the room to be cast in a sort of perpetual gloaming, with only a single electric lamp to light the expansive room.

  A camera rested on a tripod beside a wooden table, piled high with jars of chemicals, processing trays, papers and – to my immediate surprise – an amber paperweight, identical in every way to the ones we had seen in both Baxter’s and Grange’s offices. I kept my own counsel for the time being, knowing that Holmes would have already seen it, too. Surely this implied an even stronger connection between Underwood and Grange than the photographs we had found at Grange’s house.

  “This is the machine itself,” said Underwood, proudly, indicating his creation with a wave of his hand. “My spectrograph generator.” I turned to regard it. The machine comprised a sturdy wooden chair, roughly hewn, with an assemblage of hoops and wires affixed to it, standing before a black fabric backcloth. It looked disturbingly like the electric chairs used in the United States to execute criminals.

  “Remarkable,” said Newbury, with genuine interest. He crossed to the machine, peering close
ly at the workings. I hung back, along with Foxton and Holmes, who seemed happy to allow Newbury to lead the questioning, at least for the time being.

  “If you’d care to take a seat, Sir Maurice, I will gladly give you a demonstration,” said Underwood, crossing to his camera rig.

  Newbury shook his head. “I’d find it much more interesting to observe, if it’s all the same,” he said. He glanced over at us. “How about you, Dr. Watson? Would you be willing to serve as our guinea pig?”

  “Me?” I exclaimed, a trifle too loudly. “Well… I…” I stammered.

  “An excellent suggestion, Sir Maurice,” said Holmes, stepping in quickly before I was able to recover my wits and talk my way out of it.

  “Oh, very well,” I said, feeling less than enthusiastic.

  “Nothing to fear, Dr. Watson. Seaton has had me in that chair numerous times over the last year,” said Foxton. His cavalier tone revealed that he did not take the matter as seriously as Underwood did. Yet there was also a note of disapproval in his voice.

  Underwood approached me, looking me up and down as if sizing me up. “This way, Dr. Watson,” he said. He ushered me toward the machine, and I could feel the childlike excitement positively dripping off him. “I prefer to work with my subjects alone,” he said. “I do not usually admit spectators. To capture a person’s essence is a most serious business, and I find it best to avoid distractions of any kind. Optimal results are achieved when the subject is fully engaged.” While I kept silent, I couldn’t help but be extremely grateful that I wasn’t going to undertake this experiment with only this strange young man for company.

  I spent a few moments examining the strange device but couldn’t make any sense out of it. There were all manner of odd mechanical and electrical components fixed to the back of the thickset wooden chair, connected to three wire hoops. It looked somehow primitive and incredibly sophisticated all at once, and most definitely the product of a disturbed mind.

  “Just take a seat there,” he said, “while I set up the tripod.”

  I glanced at Holmes, feeling more than a little sheepish, but Holmes nodded, encouraging me to continue. Newbury was standing beside him, clearly fascinated, watching Underwood’s every move.

  With a shrug, I climbed in amongst the metal hoops and took a seat. It was damned uncomfortable, and the roughly hewn wood scratched at my lower back through my jacket.

  Underwood busied himself setting up the camera and tray and then, with a beaming smile, he rushed over, flicked a switch on the machine and turned off the floor lamp. We were thrust into darkness.

  The machine issued a weird electrical hum, like the buzzing of some malign insect, and then the metal hoops began to vibrate around me. I felt a tingling sensation, as if someone was attempting to tease the hair from my scalp. It grew in intensity, and I squirmed, seriously considering getting up out of the chair.

  Just as it was about to become unbearable, there was a sudden explosion of light as Underwood took his photographs, and then he hurried over, flicked the switch on the chair and turned the lights on again.

  I blinked, trying to clear the temporary stains of light from my retina.

  “Got you,” said Underwood, as he took my arm and helped me out from the guts of the bizarre machine. I was feeling a little queasy by this point and stumbled, unsteady on my feet. Underwood caught me and guided me to another chair, mumbling something about “momentary disorientation”.

  He went off to fiddle with the camera, promising that he’d return shortly with the developed plate.

  Newbury and Holmes were at my side almost immediately.

  “How do you feel, Dr. Watson?” asked Newbury, enthusiastically.

  “Wretched!” I said, rubbing at the top of my head. It was still tingling, as if I had a bad dose of pins and needles in my scalp. “It’s like being eaten alive by a swarm of ants.”

  “The sensation will pass in just a moment,” said Foxton, from over Newbury’s shoulder. “You’ll suffer no ill effects. And trust me, it will be quite a souvenir that Seaton is producing for you.”

  “It’s most intriguing,” said Holmes. “What does the machine actually do?”

  “Agitates the spirit,” mumbled Underwood. I saw he had his head and shoulders beneath a velvet cowl, as he hunched over the table, developing the print. “So that it may be photographed.”

  “It certainly feels agitated,” I said ruefully. “I’ve felt nothing like it in all my years.”

  Newbury laughed. “I admit, I find myself quite anxious to see the results.”

  Holmes pressed his point. “Agitates the spirit? By what means?”

  Underwood gave an audible sigh. “One cannot reveal all of one’s secrets, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “But if you must know, the machine generates a magnetic aura at a very specific frequency, which interacts with the psychical field surrounding one’s physical form.” Underwood straightened up, casting his velvet shroud aside with a flourish. He was holding a print between a pair of metal tongs. The paper was curled and still dripping with solution. He pinned it to a line of string above his head, which I’d failed to notice earlier due to the dim light. “Additionally, I have employed certain… ritualistic elements into my construction of the device, drawing on the practices of an obscure druidic tribe. Together, these elements ensure the continued success of the process. It has taken me many years of constant iteration and refinement to achieve such success.”

  Holmes sniffed, but said nothing.

  I could see that a smudged image was beginning to emerge on the print. I got to my feet, feeling a little steadier, and crossed to where Underwood was standing, looking up at the photograph.

  “Good Lord,” I exclaimed, “I look quite dreadful.” Unlike Grange, who had appeared notably serene and unmoved in his photographs, I was wearing a comical grimace. It was clear for all to see just how uncomfortable I’d been.

  As I watched the picture resolve, however, I was struck by the appearance of a series of colourful smears around my head and shoulders. These gaseous shapes were vibrant in colour – pink, green and violet – and appeared to completely encircle my head, like a Byzantine halo.

  “How remarkable,” I said. It was clear to me that the camera had picked up something that the naked eye had been unable to see. Quite how it had been achieved, however, was a complete mystery.

  I sensed Holmes standing beside me. “Tell me, Mr. Underwood, what, in your opinion, do these colourful striations represent?” said Holmes.

  “I believe them to be a true representation of a human soul,” replied Underwood. “More specifically, in this instance, the soul of Dr. Watson, presented in all its myriad aspects so that it might be properly catalogued and measured.” He paused, eyeing us each in turn. “It is my life’s work, gentlemen. It is proof positive that the soul exists independently of the body.”

  It was a beguiling notion, and – if it could be proved – utterly revolutionary. What did it mean for all of those loved ones we’d lost over the years, such as Joseph, so recently deceased? Not since my early school days had I given any credence to the notion that a person’s soul might live on outside the confines of the physical body.

  This photograph, however, I could not explain. The colourful markings had appeared as if of their own accord.

  “Impressive, is it not?” said Foxton.

  “Exceedingly,” I said.

  “Mr. Underwood, might I enquire as to whether you’ve performed any similar experiments using animals as test subjects?” enquired Newbury.

  “Indeed I have,” replied Underwood. “A dog, a cat, and any number of species of bird.”

  “And your findings?” prompted Newbury.

  “Inconclusive,” said Underwood. “Although I must add that none of the beasts subjected to the machine have generated a spectrograph. I intend to carry out further tests, but if I was to speculate, I would suggest that it only works on human beings.”

  A gong sounded elsewhere in the house, announcing the
imminent arrival of dinner. It was late, and I was surprised to note just how hungry I was.

  “Ah,” said Foxton. “I fear I must drag you away to less diverting matters.” He started toward the door.

  Holmes extended his hand to Underwood. “Thank you, Mr. Underwood, for your time. It has been most… enlightening,” he said.

  “Indeed,” agreed Newbury. “Fascinating.”

  I nodded my agreement.

  “You are most welcome,” said Underwood, with a short bow.

  “Now, gentlemen, I fear I must hurry you,” said Foxton. “I’ve ignored my other guests for too long, and Brown will be fussing over dinner arrangements.” He glanced at Underwood. “We’ll talk later, Seaton,” he said.

  Underwood nodded and turned his back on us, staring up at my picture, hanging alone on the line. I felt a shiver pass along my spine, and went after the others, hurrying to catch up.

  * * *

  Dinner was a pleasant affair, which passed in a blur of fine food, red wine and the companionship of both Newbury and Angelchrist. I was delighted to find myself sitting between them, and they spent the evening regaling me with tales of their exploits back at the turn of the century, when they’d both been working for different agencies – Newbury for the Crown and Angelchrist for the government – but insisted on pooling their resources and secretly working together, along with Bainbridge and Newbury’s assistant Miss Hobbes.

  I was treated to talk of rampaging terror birds, creatures in the sewers, diabolical doctors and terrorist plots. The stories, I gathered, must have grown in the telling, as the London they described was a far cry from the one I remembered. Newbury expounded a theory on this very subject, however, explaining how the city of London was, in fact, a different place to each and every individual who walked her streets, that her intricacies were hidden in the way she was perceived, and that the city responded to each person accordingly, divulging her true nature only to those who knew how to look. By this time, however, I’d imbibed far too much wine, and the implications of his theory were quite lost on me.