Observations by Gaslight: Stories from the World of Sherlock Holmes

by Lyndsay Faye

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

One of PopSugar's Best New Mysteries and Thrillers of December 2021

A new collection of Sherlockian tales that shows the Great Detective and his partner, Watson, as their acquaintances saw them

Lyndsay Faye—international bestseller, translated into fifteen languages, and a two-time Edgar Award nominee—first appeared on the literary scene with Dust and Shadow, her now-classic novel pitting Sherlock Holmes against Jack the Ripper, and later produced The Whole Art of Detection, her widely acclaimed collection of traditional Watsonian tales.  Now Faye is back with Observations by Gaslight, a thrilling volume of both new and previously published short stories and novellas narrated by those who knew the Great Detective.

Beloved adventuress Irene Adler teams up with her former adversary in a near-deadly inquiry into a room full of eerily stopped grandfather clocks.  Learn of the case that cemented the lasting friendship between Holmes and Inspector Lestrade, and of the tragic crime which haunted the Yarder into joining the police force. And witness Stanley Hopkins’ first meeting with the remote logician he idolizes, who will one day become his devoted mentor.  

From familiar faces like landlady Mrs. Hudson to minor characters like Lomax the sub-librarian, Observations by Gaslight—entirely epistolary, told through diaries, telegrams, and even grocery lists—paints a masterful portrait of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson as you have never seen them before.

 

 

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Release date: December 21, 2021

Publisher: Mysterious Press

Print pages: 306

Sample

THE ADVENTURE OF THE STOPPED CLOCKS

(Irene Adler)

Entry in the personal journal and scrapbook of Mrs. Irene Norton, née Adler, Thursday, May 31st, 1888:

Goodness, I haven’t had so much as a second to scratch down my thoughts!

We closed our concert’s two-week run on Sunday 27th. To universal good notices, I add with a rousing huzzah! Here, I’ve my brush and paste at the ready, and this review of my performance is too sweet not to insert immediately—it’s always better writing to the aroma of glue and newsprint anyhow:

Den zutiefst berührenden Höhepunkt des Abends bescherte uns Kontraaltistin Irene Adler als Fidès mit ihrer fesselnden Interpretation von “O prêtres de Baal” im 5. Akt, welche den Zuhörern wohl noch Jahre im Gedächtnis bleiben wird.

Or, as it would be said in my native tongue:

The deeply touching climax of the evening brought us contralto Irene Adler as Fides with her captivating interpretation of “O prêtres de Baal” in the fifth act, which the audience will remember for years to come.

Isn’t that darling? How could any singer not adore performing in Vienna, their being so deeply appreciative of our art? There was also a particularly nice sentence or two in Deutsche Volksblatt, but then again Meyerbeer always sits well with me.

Excellent accommodations, better programme, and the artistic company I kept best of all. And then chaos like a nest of hornets, and at my own instigation!

First the flurry of telegrams between Vienna and London on Monday. Then the wild packing, kissing my chuckling stage-fellows’ cheeks at a farewell breakfast Tuesday before I dashed for the train, flinging myself upon Channel-chopped waters Wednesday, the glad reunion last night.

And now here sit I in this clean, featureless hotel bedroom.

Unsure of myself, after all.

Well, it has been a year since I’ve seen London—nearly to the week. Anxiety is natural. And Godfrey, bless his beautiful heart, is anxious enough for ten people. (He’s worth ten men, so that’s hardly shocking.)

And all is quite as it should be! The empty shell of an egg in its porcelain cup at my elbow, my pen in hand. Silvered city light glinting over both. Carpets soft, pale blue velvet chairs plump, Godfrey returned to his former offices in the Temple.

Myself incognito, as needs must. Since Godfrey is so very anxious over my ever coming across a certain consulting detective hired by a certain Bohemian.

Perhaps the prospect of enduring my husband’s brother this evening might account for my minor jitters? Or that I cannot freely be myself, swan about with my feathers agleam in St. James’s Park? It cannot be fear of Siggy, for he is long gone away home. And what a poor home the hereditary King of Bohemia’s was, for all its riches!

I trace these irksome quivers to last night.

Champagne in bed at three-thirty in the morning may sound indecent to some, but Godfrey is not among their number. Our reunion deserved celebration. Anyway, what harm has decadence ever done anyone? In moderation, of course. He grinned at me from the headboard, snug in pyjamas and a shawl-collared robe. Its sable colour made his black hair blacker, mussed from where I’d mussed it. He gazed at me sitting Hindu-style in an emerald velvet dressing gown and silk shift, ensconced in about fifty pillows like the veriest Jezebel.

“There is to be champagne in the middle of the night upon every Wednesday last of the month henceforth, in perpetuity, to celebrate the month.” Sipping, I savoured yeast and green pears.

“Vox Regina, vox Dei. You do look rather like a queen just now,” he murmured.

“Mmm. Hearty thanks—we should buy me a sceptre. I’ve plentiful paste tiaras already, so that’s not at issue. Ooooh, I should go fetch one.”

“By George. It still troubles me on occasion.” Godfrey’s handsome face darkened.

“What does?”

“Your . . . situation. Oh, I comprehend full well what a cad the King was,” he continued.

“Beg pardon?”

“Only . . . to think you might have been a monarch in truth once, and here you are, bride of a humble solici—”

“Bride of a king among men instead of in outmoded hereditary claptrap!” I exclaimed. “I’m a freeborn citizen of the United States of America, might I remind you. Don’t tread on me! Live free or die!”

Godfrey scoffed charmingly.

My champagne splashed as I launched myself across the bed.

“No, no, listen to me! Not a wax effigy in a crown, to be revered and exalted. Not a figurehead on the prow of a ship, to inspire and—”

My spouse of just over a year stopped my protestations. Pleasantly, too.

“You must know by this time how I adore you,” I breathed.

When I met his deep brown eyes, a smile appeared. “For heaven’s sake, I ought to. You’re the one outwitted all the king’s horses and all the king’s men to win my hand.”

“I did, didn’t I? Did I sweep you away on a white charger?”

“No, that should have been far too noticeable. It was a white steamer.”

“How awfully clever of me. You helped, though, let’s not forget.”

“I haven’t finished. To continue. Whisked us away to the continent, supposedly never to return to London and Sherlock bloody—”

I sat upright, indignant. “Is it my fault that my beloved has pressing business dealings in my favourite city?”

Godfrey frowned. I could write entire adagios for his frowns. “Is it my fault that my darling is wretchedly unsafe here following certain all-too-recent adventures? For heaven’s sake, Irene, he could still want you arrested for blackmail. The man certainly tried his best.”

“Well, is it my fault that you’ve a taste for women with a taste for life? While I don’t regret my past . . . entanglements, I do detest the way this one hobbles us.”

“Ha! The day I see you hobbled is the day Marianne Brandt outperforms you at ‘Re dell’abiso.’ ”

“That’ll never happen. But I am geographically hobbled, awfully so!”

“No, darling, you’re right here actually, against all safety injunctions. In London. With me.”

“How terribly vexing for you. You ought to have married a maiden in a tower,” I sniffed.

“Should I desire such a dreadfully tedious wife, I’ve no doubt we can procure you a blonde wig and you can enact her for me.”

Shaking out my chestnut hair, I tried to remain miffed. I failed.

Who could possibly not love such a man as Godfrey Norton? To reemphasise: it’s always an honour to give a concert in Vienna, especially with my old pals from the Vienna Court Opera. But now I realise—no matter that Europe, improbably, was safer than England thanks to its lack of Sherlock Holmes. No matter that Godfrey and I had travelled the Continent for eleven happy months.

He was called back to London Town. I was in Vienna.

And I hated it.

I was sick to death of the loneliness and the loveliness, wanted no more of clean grey Austrian streets and only good British mud, no more pillowy sausages and merely a bowl of buttered peas.

So I wired him. I’d paste the entire exchange here, but I was too frantic after the concert ended to save the initial telegrams. Most are irrecoverable, in my Austrian fireplace.

Prepare a parade in my honour, for I’m joining you quick as I can, I wrote.

You cannot return to England and you know it, he responded with undue urgency.

I’m going to though, so don’t get rattled. I always sound more American when I’m 

very determined. I’m not afraid of Sherlock Holmes.

Please do not risk your safety on a whim.

You are no whim. You are the light that causes my soul to bloom.

This last response, though, I saved for posterity. Of course I did:

LONDON, ENGLAND to VIENNA, AUSTRIA,

Monday, May 28th marked URGENT:

IF YOU DON’T RUIN MY HEALTH WITH WORRY YOU’LL RUIN IT TEARING MY HEARTSTRINGS STOP FOR GOD’S SAKE TAKE A SHIP AND DON’T SWIM THE CHANNEL STOP I LOVE YOU—GN

Anyhow, I hopped out of bed to refill our champagne glasses, I called, “What’s got you so bothered over the whole business with Siggy tonight anyhow? Don’t spare the scoundrel a thought. I rarely do, and then it’s only to recollect that he had a nightdress with a white fox fur collar and laugh myself senseless.”

Godfrey’s face grew still more troubled.

“Godfrey!” Abandoning the glasses, I clasped both his hands. “You haven’t moped over Siggy in . . . no, strike that, I don’t figure you’ve ever moped in your life. This cannot be about Sherlock Holmes, I’ve already outwitted him. Spill it at once.”

His lips brushed my wrist. “We must dine with Gilbert tomorrow.”

“Haven’t you finished your business with your horrid brother by this time?”

“No, more’s the pity. And I’ve not the slightest capacity of giving you orders, but please darling, don’t go running willy-nilly around London while I’m at the offices?”

“I, Irene Norton, swear not to run helter-skelter. And it isn’t as if I’m a universally reviled figure, when people even do recognise me. I’m just a renowned opera singer. And Siggy poses no threat—the buffoon has all his socks monogrammed and is long married to an albino tadpole. He’s long gone altogether.”

Godfrey muttered something like Sherlock bloody Holmes isn’t. I stroked a wave of his thick hair.

As I mentioned, I’m not afraid of Sherlock Holmes either.

Ever since I spent a week researching him, the man positively fascinates me. He invented a definitive test for identifying bloodstains—I’m no amateur scientist, but the journals do fascinate me.

“Irene, you attempted to blackmail the hereditary king of Bohemia.”

“Nearly managed it, too, by golly.”

“It was quite definitely illegal. Very, very punishable.”

“It was fun. And necessary—who else would have taken that pompous oaf down a peg?”

“Do spare some pity for my nerves.”

“Then spare some pity for mine! They’ll be in shambles after an entire evening looking at your brother!”

He winced at that. “Irene, I flatter myself that you enjoy assisting me. Please help me to work out what the deuce is going on?”

“Oh, my darling. In a heartbeat,” I soothed. “What’s the trouble?”

“That’s just it—I don’t know. Gilbert wanted my help as a solicitor to rearrange some securities, sell others. But you shall hear all about it tomorrow, darling—never allow me to stand accused of ruining a topping bottle of champagne by discussing the Norton finances.”

I reined my temper, which was roused only on 

behalf of my noble husband rather than against him. Of course when he’d thought I looked queenly, he’d poked at a tender spot in his own heart. As if it isn’t enough that his reprobate father lost half the Norton family fortune at the tables. As if it isn’t enough that Gilbert is the eldest and cut from identical cloth, haemorrhaging money, and second son Gerald is in Sumatra overseeing a thriving peppercorn plantation.

Well, aces for Gilbert and Gerald. It left Godfrey, a half brother from a second marriage, with nothing save a sterling intellect and education, his character, and his determination to prevent his elder sibling from squandering the remainder of their assets. Gilbert insults me whenever he can, and Godfrey responds by—throwing me in his surly brother’s face.

Oh! I should air the sapphire gown immediately; Godfrey will want me in finest fettle this evening!

I’m salivating to walk the streets again. I might have indicated to Godfrey that Irene Norton wouldn’t be glimpsed today, but Irene Norton doesn’t wear Paris-cut trousers and swallowtail coats.

Properly fried cod and chips are to be had nearby, and they aren’t going to consume themselves.

Entry in the personal journal and scrapbook of Mrs. Irene Norton, née Adler, Friday, June 1st, 1888:

Speaking of fish, we are in a fine kettle of one.

Lord above, I cannot bear Gilbert Norton.

Gilbert greeted us in the front parlour of the townhouse, which is populated by the family collection of standing clocks. It is part museum, part showroom to dazzle visitors. The room was eerily quiet. He raked hazel eyes up and down as if I were some back-alley piece of flotsam instead of a headlining prima donna. He licked his lips.

Impudent wretch.

“Why, if it isn’t my dear sister returned to haunt our hallways,” he sneered, already three or four glasses of sherry ahead of us. “How was your triumphal European tour, then?”

My husband took my arm. “It was wildly successful—but had it been a series of decaying railway line inspections, I should still have been blissfully content.”

Preening, I offered my hand. Gilbert had no choice save taking it, emitting a foul stench of snobbery. My spouse and I passed off the elopement as a sudden but necessary prelude to my emerging from retirement—when really we were married in a spectacular hurry to avoid a certain consulting detective and hadn’t wanted anyone there—and I don’t suppose Gilbert’s ever forgiven me for snatching a free (and brilliant) solicitor from his clutches.

Happy thought!

As the brothers spoke, I took a turn around the receiving room visiting my favourite residents: the clocks. A stunning sky-blue Fryksdahl from Sweden shaped like a violin smiled down at me; a mahogany case clock with such a high polish it shone like tortoiseshell seemed to wink. Suddenly I realised why the atmosphere in the room was so strangely still.

“Gilbert, why are none of the clocks running?” I called.

He glowered. “They are all to be serviced and appraised to update the insurance policy. Whatever business is it of yours?”

Dinner passed predictably. Being half siblings, Gilbert is much lighter haired than Godfrey, going to fat where Godfrey is trim and broad-shouldered, with a tendency to stroke his side-whiskers when contemplating how next to snub me. This time it was “little music-hall melodramas” and “your sudden departure produced no . . . happy news for the family, then?”

Godfrey’s mouth seemed carved of stone. Meanwhile I arched my shoulders like a hissing cat and drew my forefinger around my wine glass rim. Smiling all the while.

Yet . . . something more niggled. Sputtering and hissing between the siblings as I hadn’t seen before. It all came out when the three of us retired back to the clocks parlour. Gilbert has neither wife nor real friends, so I joined the men as a trio. They couldn’t exactly pack me off to the library to read Austen.

Godfrey gave me a subtle tilt of his eyebrow, his back to the grey marble fireplace, before volleying at his brother, “I say, Gilbert, you’ve never suggested letting go of the Peters-Carmichael stocks before now. I wondered for what possible reason? They’re perfectly sound.”

Gilbert, loose and louche in an armchair, curled his upper lip around his cigar. “I have it on excellent authority that they won’t be sound in a few months’ time, so don’t fret over it.”

“Are you in need of immediate funds?”

The question was posed coolly, but the elder brother spat, “It would behoove you to mind your own bloody business over what’s mine by inheritance, Godfrey.”

“All right. You’ve changed your opinion of peppercorns then?”

“Questions, questions, questions. Have you no family feeling? No, I know full well where your affections lie. With dance-hall girls and tavern keepers’ daughters.”

Godfrey badly wanted to strike him, but I interjected, “We can all hold multiple people in our hearts, my dear Gilbert. I’m sure Godfrey thinks of you exactly as he ever did.”

Noticing the barb, Gilbert stuffed the cigar back between his teeth.

“Upon whose authority do you have it that Peters-Carmichael is unsound?” Godfrey persisted.

Gilbert slurred, “Oh won’t you please shut your stickling head, Godfrey; the Baron tipped me. So I’m shuffling them off to Gerald in Sumatra. Does that satisfy you? Does it satisfy your wife?”

Wife, in this case, was spelled courtesan, and we could both hear it. We left five minutes later, Godfrey in a rage, Gilbert snoring.

So that’s the trouble. The Baron. For all he twits Godfrey about his low company, Gilbert’s moments of disgrace are spent banging his fists against gambling tables and other people’s faces, while Godfrey’s are spent—used to be spent—plying pretty chanteuses and actresses with hothouse roses and then doing their bookkeeping for them the morning after. All right, he was a bit of an adventurer, but so was I, wasn’t I? And it’s vastly better behavior to court an artist than it is to hush up scandals over beaten dogs and ponies. Servants, occasionally. Gilbert’s footman once had the ghastliest black eye.

The Baron addresses these problems for Gilbert Norton. He cajoles, he bribes, he threatens. He fixes things, like a tinker in a toy shop. What are such men called? Well, anyhow, the Baron fixes whatever ails Gilbert.

He’s a fixer, there, I’ve settled it!

Last night under the quilt, Godfrey said, “Forgive me, darling, for exposing you to that behavior. But you see why this vexes me? Why should Gilbert abandon something profitable to benefit a brother he doesn’t give a whit about?”

“Nonsense, I’ve spread men saltier than your brother on toast and nibbled at them for breakfast. And of course I do. What have you tried so far?”

His shoulder shrugged beneath my head. “I can find nothing whatsoever wrong with the Peters-Carmichael holdings, nor with Gerald’s dashed peppercorns neither. It’s like selling a townhouse to purchase its exact copy across the street. The value is essentially identical. Gilbert never gave a fig over Sumatra, so why should he start?”

“Hmm.”

“He never gave a fig for Gerald or me either,” Godfrey continued with a yawn. “He always resented our striking out independently. He only hated it more when we proved competent.”

“The stocks themselves are not what troubles you,” I murmured.

“What does, then?”

“The Baron. Where the devil does he enter into it?”

“The back door, darling, I can promise you that much.”

“And why should all your family clocks have been stopped?”

“It’s been like that for days. I haven’t the faintest idea,” he sighed as he drifted into slumberland.

For my sleepless part, I recalled all I could about Dickie “Baron” Maupertuis, so-called because the scamp claims he’s descended from French aristocrats who fled the guillotine’s kiss. My left boot sole has bluer blood than does Dickie Maupertuis, and I have it on good authority his family is from Seven Dials. When his ugly head first reared up to fret Godfrey, I researched him thoroughly. And he fixes things for plenty of folks, not just Gilbert—gentlemen of leisure, yes, but also art collectors, banking magnates, very rich criminals, and two titled landowners. If you’re wealthy and unscrupulous and have a problem, Dickie Maupertuis makes it go away.

Puzzling how to help my beloved, there in his arms, I came up with nil. Yes, I can pass as a man by night or with my hat low—but I can’t conduct entire interviews with hooligans that way. Some women can turn masculine flawlessly, but my features are too delicate even using paint.

I like my ribs intact, and so does Godfrey. What I need is an ally.

Oooooh, I’ve the most delicious idea. It’s so wonderfully funny that I just long to tell Godfrey about it—but he’d quash it like a bug.

Today I’ve a message to send while dear Godfrey is working down at the Temple. Oh, if I should pull this off! The finest haberdasher in Paris won’t have a walloping enough feather for my cap. I won’t be Irene anymore. I’ll be Yankee Doodle and call the feather Macaroni.

As I drifted off, I couldn’t help but reflect: what troubles my husband’s repose and what troubles mine the most differ entirely. Obviously, the miasma of Dickie Maupertuis puts a right stink over the whole question of stock trading, especially when the transaction seems meaningless.

But why should all the grandfather clocks be stopped, even if they are to be serviced?

I’ve never heard of such a thing.

Entry in the personal journal and scrapbook of Mrs. Irene Norton, née Adler, Friday, June 1st, 1888 (continued):

He already said yes!

How my heart thrills at it! Huzzah! But not in the way it does when I glimpse Godfrey unexpectedly, that grasping glee that makes me want to cling to him like an ivy vine.

This is another thrill altogether. I loathe hurting animals, but I’ve galloped over fen and fencepost enough times to know what a huntress must feel like.

In a brown tweed suit and bowler hat, I crossed the river to send the wire. Giving away our location without due caution would have been unwise to say the least. My missive was so vague I was sure it would net him:

SOUTHWARK to MARYLEBONE, Friday, June 1st.:

OLD FRIEND REQUIRES AID STOP WORK MUST COME GRATIS BUT REPAID IN INFORMATION STOP WOULD ADD REPAID IN SENTIMENT BUT YOU ARE IMMUNE STOP APPLY THIS NAME AND POST OFFICE IMMEDIATELY IF FREE TOMORROW—NIGHTINGALE

And not forty minutes of pacing the tiles later, his reply:

MARYLEBONE to SOUTHWARK, Friday, June 1st.:

INTRIGUED NOT OVER OLD FRIEND BUT BECAUSE I HAVE NONE STOP AN ENEMY JUST AS DIVERTING SHOULD THIS BE A LURE, AS I’VE REALLY NO IDEA TO WHOM I’M TALKING STOP GLAD TO DISCUSS TOMORROW—SH

Now, to complete my planning!

It’s difficult to separate one’s life from one’s work when one is lucky enough to be engaged in the exact vocation that best expresses her personality. I am that blessed by Fortune. So a certain amount of . . . well, flash . . . tends to be involved in my dealings, be they commonplace or outlandish.

My first official meeting with Sherlock Holmes requires proper staging. It’s not as if I can simply turn up at Baker Street without Godfrey having kittens over it. Less hostile territory is called for, but a park bench or a tea shop would certainly not—

Oh my Lord. I have it, it’s perfection itself! Farewell, dear journal, for I must disguise my writing and scribble two notes for hand-delivery.

One to Mr. Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street and one to the Cupid’s Arrow Club. ...