Trollheart

Chapter II: From Heaven to Hell

I:

Holmes turned around like a whip cracking. His eyes were suddenly bright.

“My name?”

“Yours, sir.”

“Where?”

“On the wall.”

“Written?”

She considered, as if wondering how best to describe or explain it.

“I would not say written, sir,” she decided at last. “At least, not in any ink I have ever seen.”

Holmes frowned.

“I see. And did you show this writing to the police?”

“Oh no sir. It only happened last night, which was why I came straight around to you this morning.”

Holmes considered. I could see the look of annoyance fade from his face in an instant, replaced by an eagerness for the hunt. He was making for his room, searching for his coat.

“Can I take it the writing is still there, Mrs. Fraser?”

“Oh yes, sir,” she nodded. “There is nobody else in the house.”

“No servants?”

She dropped her eyes, as if embarrassed again.

“No sir. I am not a woman of means, and what money I had has mostly been expended on my sister's defence, even though she does not want one.”

“Very good!” Holmes was now talking from his dressing-room, and emerged a moment later attired for the street. He nodded to me. “Watson, fetch us a cab. I believe the the next train to Sheffield departs from Paddington in half an hour. We will return with Mrs. Fraser to her house and peruse this... unearthly writing. Mayhap it will provide us a clue.”


II:


The journey north into steel country took us two hours, during which time Holmes said little, and I, reluctant to leave Mrs. Fraser unattended, engaged her in light conversation, which turned mostly on the subject of her late husband. On arrival in Sheffield, a short hansom ride brought us to Mrs. Fraser's small house which, though small, was not poor, while it was still obvious that Mrs. Fraser had come down in the world, as she explained to us apologetically as she opened the door.

“I was unable to stay in my previous residence, the rent being so high and my finances so low, necessitating a move to a, well, less expensive residence.”

Holmes touched his hat. “You are to be commended, madam, for your dedication to your sister. I only wish she appreciated it.”

“I am sure she does,” insisted the lady, leading us inside, “in her own way. This way please, gentlemen. Mind the bannister, for it is in need of a nail and has a tendency to bend outwards.”

I fancied the thing was more in need of complete replacement, and felt it only my gentlemanly duty to offer to try to effect repairs. As Mrs. Fraser pointed me towards the cellar, where her late husband's tools were kept, Holmes, giving me a look I found hard to interpret, followed her up the rickety stairs.

It took but the work of minutes to strengthen the rail and ensure it did not move, and I rolled down my sleeves, returned the hammer and nails to the late Mr. Fraser's tool box, and joined Holmes in the bedroom.

My friend had his lens out, and was staring at the words on the wall, which even I could see on entering. The letters looked at first as if they had been done in charcoal, yet they glowed with some inner light which that material does not possess, unless set afire. The name was not actually complete, but hard to mistake the message:

GO
SE
SHERL
HOLME

I could not fathom why someone might only complete half of each word. If the author had been interrupted while writing the message one would have imagined something along the lines of

GO
SEE
SHERLOCK
HOL

or similar, but here were words cut off while others made after them had been started. Most singular indeed. But even more so was the composition of the letters, and the question of how they had been put there. Holmes confirmed they were neither chalk nor paint, not charcoal either, as had at first appeared to me, and no chemical he was familiar with. They were, his examination told him conclusively, not written in blood either.

“This message,” he announced, straightening up and pocketing his glass, “was somehow burned into the wall. I find it hard to ascert -”

His words were cut off by a high-pitched shriek, and he turned from me to Mrs. Fraser. For one moment I had the distinct impression he was about to take out his lens again and examine her, to determine the cause of her distress and fright, but instead he followed her pointing finger, and all but shouted himself. I personally took a step back, grabbing at the door frame to steady myself as my legs threatened to trip over each other.

Right in front of us, as we watched, and with no possible agency to explain it, words appeared on the wall!

With a sizzling, hissing sound, as if someone were using a tool to burn the letters into the brick, like the ranchers I had heard of in the United States of America, who used heated metal rods to imprint their sigil on the flesh of their livestock to mark them as their property, we all three watched In dread, mute fascination the new message as it seared itself both into the wall and into our brains. Holmes had whipped out his lens and was watching closely, though considering the method of writing the message, he did not touch the wall or get too close. There was a curious smell of roasting flesh, like when the boar turns on the spit. I felt queasy suddenly.

The words appeared, slowly and with a sort of halting, jerky motion

CIRC
CRO
BAT
CAN
AD
A
REVE

In the very act of writing what appeared to be a letter N the ghostly hand – for such I must call it – stopped, and the message appeared to be done. Or as much as was going to be written. As the writing had appeared on the wall, Holmes had first pawed the air frantically, as if trying to touch the author, be he invisible or in some other way disguised against our senses.

He turned to me, his face pale and ashen.

“Nothing,” he breathed, like a man who doubts what he says. “Nothing, I tell you, Watson. There was nothing there!”

For a moment he continued to stare at the half-formed message on the wall of Mrs. Fraser's house.

Then I yelled “Holmes!”

I had just realised that she had fainted, and rushed to her aid, as did he. As we attended to her, Holmes almost screamed at me, pointing up.

“Watson! The ceiling! The ceiling!”

Scrawled above us, in those spectral letters charred into the roof, larger than those on the wall by a factor of at least three, the words

ADONIS
SAVE
HER

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