Trollheart

We sat in silence for some time, each thinking our own private thoughts. For my part, I was reflecting on the case we had just solved, how tragically it had come to an end – despite being a murderer, it gave me no pleasure to see a man torn apart by a lion, something I had seen more than once when in service in India – and how it had been certainly the most singular I had ever been involved in. A thought struck me, and I hissed to Holmes.

“That explains why you were here, but not why you are here now. Surely this curate can be of no further use to you, now that the case is closed?”

Holmes did not meet my eyes immediately; it was possibly the first time I had seen him be in a state of what I could only call discomfort. He looked like he had something to say, but was not sure if he could say it, or if he wanted to. At length he responded in a low voice.

“When one's perfect world of logic and science no longer makes sense, Watson, it is perhaps no surprise that one seeks out such a place.”

I understood. “You're thinking about the ghost.”

He sighed. “I have built my career, my very life around disproving the supernatural, Watson,” he told me, as if I needed to be told. “I have never believed in it, and even when it seemed there was such an agency involved, I have proven it to be of earthly origin. But this last case has forced me to re-evaluate how I think about such things.”

I nodded, leaning on my stick, staring ahead at the great cross which hung like a massive judgement over the altar. Not a breeze stirred the row of lit candles before it; the very sound of our voices, hushed and sepulchral, seemed to be swallowed up in the all-pervading silence.

“I feel the same way, Holmes,” I admitted, shaking my head. “There is no doubting we were both witness to something, well, inexplicable in Mrs. Fraser's house. I can think of no way that writing could have appeared on the wall before our very eyes, and yet I, too, like you, am a man of science, and prone to dismiss such things. It is proving most difficult though to retain that innate skepticism and scorn with which I usually greet such occurrences.”

Returning to more familiar ground, Holmes began to analyse the issue.

“The first point, the most important, Watson, I think you'll agree, is the question: do ghosts exist? A few days ago as rational, thinking, logical and intelligent men I have no doubt you and I would both have said no, quite obviously they don't. However what we saw brooks no rational or logical explanation, and as we both saw it – along with Mrs. Fraser – it cannot be dismissed as hysteria or some trick. Believe me, Watson, I have spent many hours in the past few days going over every possibility, not only to determine if such an effect could be produced by human means, but also, if it could, to what end? We can discount the killer, who most certainly would not have wished to have put us on his trail, something that only really happened after we read that ghostly message. Mrs. Liebert, of course, wrongly accused, could have motive, but she was locked away in Pentonville Prison, and of her only other living relatives, one was away at boarding school and too young to be able to even conceive, never mind execute such a trick, and the other was standing in the room with us. Could Mrs. Fraser have somehow manipulated some device to make us think that what we saw was a message from beyond the grave? Doubtful. Remember, she fainted when she saw the words begin to appear, and with her agreement I returned to her house the day before yesterday and made a thorough search for any machinery, magic lanterns, or any other chicanery. I must admit I found none.”

I shook my head. “I cannot believe that Mrs. Fraser was responsible,” I declared. “For one thing, even had she been somehow able to communicate such information, from what source could she have had it?”

Holmes seemed to agree. “It was certainly news to me, and badly delivered too, resulting in my mistaking one word for three. And then there was the larger writing which appeared on the ceiling. I should mention also, Watson, in case the thought had occurred to you, that no, the writing is not still there. Mrs. Fraser told me it was gone soon after we left, therefore we can reasonably assume the message was for us alone.”

A creaking sound behind us caused us both to turn at once, as a lance of bright sunlight pierced the cloaking darkness of the church, but it was only some old woman, come to practice her devotions. She sat at the back of the church; nevertheless, we both found ourselves lowering our voices further, and Holmes motioned towards the altar.

“I had hoped to gain some insight into the existence of the spirit world here, Watson, but it seems the Almighty is silent on the subject. Perhaps, at the last, it is a question which even our maker cannot answer.” He sighed, crossed himself, something I had never seen him do, and rose. “Let us light a candle for the late Peter Liebert, Watson,” he suggested, “and be on our way.”



The sunlight was almost blinding as we emerged from the gloom, the sounds of the street welcome after the funereal stillness of the church. As we walked back to Baker Street, Holmes talked some more, his voice now at its normal level and pitch.

“I believe we are forced to accept the unacceptable, Watson, and countenance the existence of ghosts. Or at least,” he smiled tightly, tipping his hat as we passed two ladies, “one ghost.” He turned to me suddenly, pointing with his walking stick at my chest. “Assuming they do exist then, Watson,” he asked me, “why do you believe they remain here?”

I thought about it. Talk of ghosts and the spirit world and spectral messages suddenly seemed rather foolish out in the light of the sun, yet I could not deny that we had both witnessed something neither of us could explain.

“The clairvoyants, the fakirs and the mesmerists would have us believe,” I said, “that a ghost remains on or returns to this – what do they call it? Spiritual plane?” Holmes nodded in agreement as we walked on. “Well, they return to this plane due to unfinished business, something that they had to do before they died, or something they must put right now that they are no longer living.”

Holmes looked up at the sky. The yellow orb of the sun blazed brightly in a clear blue, with a few small clouds seeming to scatter from its burning power. The ground was warm underfoot. All seemed right with the world. Yet there was a troubled look on my friend's face.

“Can we, then, Watson, have been aided by a ghost? The very spirit, surely, of the murdered man, determined to have justice for his killing and save his wife?”

“Save her!” I breathed. Holmes waved a hand impatiently.

“Well of course, once the rather enormous hurdle of belief in ghosts is cleared,” he said, “the meaning becomes clear at once. Who else, after all, would a ghost – the ghost, if we are to stretch credibility to its limit, as we must, of Mr. Liebert – wish us to save? There was no question it was his wife he referred to. I find myself, though, pondering on the death of Lord Bailey.”

“It is true he was the judge in the case,” I pointed out.

“Exactly so.” Again, Holmes looked reluctant to voice his theory, given his usual dismissal of the supernatural. However, he forged ahead, his eyes hooded. “Might it not be too much of a leap to assume a ghost, seeing his wife treated thus by his old enemy, and certainly, it must be said, taking his revenge on her, should contrive to scare him so that he would inadvertently step out into the road and be run over?”

I clicked my fingers.

“Like Baudelaire was lured to the lion's cage at the circus!”

“Quite likely. There is, of course, no proof for any of this, nor any way to test it. Lord Bailey may merely have had one too many and stumbled into the path of the approaching carriage. However I am, as you know, no believer in coincidences, and they pile up in this case, and especially in the matter of His Lordship. Baudelaire, surely, as a circus employee for some years, must have known the danger of backing up against the cage of a hungry lion. These beasts may be trained and somewhat domesticated, but they are still creatures of the jungle, and their predatory blood runs in even the smallest house cat. The smell of a human within reach, to say nothing of the stench of his fear – something it is said animals can sense – would surely have caused the lion to attack him.”

I shook my head, tapped my stick on the ground in front of me.

“So Peter Liebert had his revenge from beyond the grave?”

Holmes smiled, looked up at the sun. It all seemed so far-fetched and so much nonsense, out here in the brilliant sunlight, with all life teeming about. I began to wonder how unlikely it might seem back home, when I extinguished the lamp and turned to bed. Alone in the dark, would I still smile at the idea of a ghost seeking its vengeance among the living?

“We will never know for certain, of course,” Holmes admitted. “However, for my part I feel we might both do well to harken to the words of the Bard: there may, after all, be more in Heaven and Earth than is dreamed in both our philosophies, Watson.”

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