THE SONG OF THE GAROTTER

Based on the song of that name, published in Punch, December 27, 1862

Halloween in London is a shift of the senses; the street-lamps are examined weeks ahead of time and repaired before the holiday even though it is a guarantee that there will be more than a few smashed globes on that night of ruckus. As I was locum to a new practice in an unfamiliar street, I was somewhat surprised at the sight of the exquisite care taken by the lamplighters and repairmen. Equally surprising to me was great interest the homely Constable on the beat took upon such work. I would have thought the actions were something beneath his station.

"Good-evening, Doctor Watson." I recognized the leathery face of PC Murcher from the Lauriston Gardens Mystery as he touched his fingers to his brim. Such a gesture was not uncommon for a policeman who respected a person for wanting to aid in justice, but the courtesy still felt strange and peculiar to my sensibilities. I still think I half-expected the touching of the brim of an ugly helmet to be the crisp salute of a soldier upon another soldier.

"Good evening," he said again. "Have you been having any difficulties with seeing at night, sir? Hallowe'en is coming up on us, you know."

Out of habit I clipped my bag shut after another examination and remained on the steps. It is no small thing to hold a conversation with Constable Murcher, who owes his large, ungainly shoes to his increase in height. "That it is, but I confess I am still enough of a newcomer to be puzzled at this ritual, Constable."

His plain, honest face creased in puzzlement like my own. "Ritual, sir? They've got Halloween outside of London surely."

"I mean the street-lamps." I nodded at the metal trees in question. "I've noticed that since the first of October every lamp is being inspected as though the fate of London hinges upon the function of each and all globes."

"Ah, yes, sir." He nodded in a knowing fashion. "It's because of the nonsense coming up, you see. A good excuse for the gangs to go a-running about and causing their own mischief. They'll be planning where they want to go, sir. A lamp broken ahead of time is as good as a note in the tip-box."

"I see, Constable. That is a good point." Together we watched as the men laboured in the smoky dusk. This time of year the fog, yellow from the coal, twined with the slow-moving mists twining about the streets and down the alleys. Tonight, at sundown, the holiday would begin.

In most parts of the world, the holiday is now split in twain; Hallowe'en is considered completely separate from All-Saints and the following All-Hallows, but when I was a child most in our borough celebrated it all on the same night: Hallowe'en the first portion and All-Saints in the second portion while All-Hallows was the last before Guy Fawkes on the fifth. Only the adults were privileged to attend the festivities from beginning to end, even though we children did our best to stay awake with endless games and riddles and not a few reckless dares against our bravery.

I returned to Baker Street as I had so often in my three years of residency in London: alone, beneath the lit paths and casting strange, shifting shadows of shapeless forms roots at my feet. Howe Street was not so far for a man of my recovering constitution, and I was satisfied to see myself against a personal test, walking to see how well I would fare even though I was already tired from the day.

Hallowe'en in London is not the same as the holiday in the provincial regions. The city folk are incredulous at the notion of carving a vegetable into a lantern even if the rest of the country is doing it too. The truth is, the turnip-lantern—or mangel-wurzel, rutabaga, beet or marrow—is so past its prime it is worthless for even the sternest of soups and I have been forced as a youngster to take a hatchet to particularly recalcitrant turnips.

They are the leavings of the field; the rare crops left forgotten to grow the next year, massive and inedible. I cannot see a large one without remembering the boy within and contemplating the possibilities with a strong penny-knife.

Holmes was at home; the windows were closed but warm lamplight peeped out from the slender corners, and I could fancy the smell of his shag adding to the darkening day. To my surprise, a most unusual visitor was by our doorstep at Baker Street: a hoary old bewhiskered gentleman with a brimless hat and neatly patched clothing was pulling something from the back of his fruit-cart and presenting it for Mrs. Hudson. My landlady seemed pleased at the bundle, and finished thanking him heartily as the old nag drove away.

"There you are, Doctor Watson." She met me with a smile. "I have a fine turnip for carving if you would be in the mood for some bloodless surgery."

"If the person is inexperienced, I daresay it will not be bloodless." I smiled as I said so. "What would be your preference, Mrs. Hudson? Cheerful or glowering?"

"Neither," she responded, "for the lantern is for the souls of the wandering. Every year I choose a wistful expression, and I believe you have the skill to give me one this year."

"I will do my very best."

After depositing my coat and bag, I rolled up my sleeves and set to with a will in the warm kitchen. Bubble and Squeak was to be on our supper-table that night, and Mrs. Hudson was clearly pleased to add one more tradition to her house. It was indeed a woody old specimen—almost a chunk of wood in my hands as she saw to the teapot and copperware.

"Wistful" is not something that comes easily for carving a turnip, but I managed a lipless, gaping mouth wide and narrow below a set of eye-slits turned up slightly at the insides as if casting a mournful gaze into the hand of its bearer. After some thought, I left the visage without a nose and thought it looked better…the simplicity of the thing made it all the more powerful in a primitive language.

"Excellent." She announced. "I'll be certain to give you an extra bit of bonfire toffee for your troubles, doctor. The true toffee—none of that rubbish the Inspector carries around."

I thanked her, for I had learned that if there is one particular sweet that is close to Inspector Lestrade's heart, it is the cheap treacle-toffee sold in the less reputable sweet-shops. I cannot even call it "sweet" for "bitter" is a truer description. It seemed to be favoured by the poorer folk.

Duties finished I ascended the steps and pushed open the door ready for a warm fire and a drink to fortify the chill still lingering on my hands. Holmes was seated in his customary chair, wrapped deep within his mouse-coloured dressing-gown which suggested he was in a rare mood of contentment. I say rare because for him contentment too often means stimulation, and he will seek this even if he is weary or ill. Tonight I could easily see the source of his pleasant mood in a thick volume upon his lap; although it was closed, I doubted this strange text would have been read all the way through in one day—even by my friend. At my casual glance it would be at least eight hundred or so pages in length, and such books are usually accompanied by a second book replete with notes.

"There you are, Watson." He pulled a barely-smoking pipe from his lips and smiled at him. "I have been making myself useful today, whilst between cases. The London criminal is occasionally utterly bereft of imagination, but there are moments in our history when an example of worthy study emerges."

"Are you to have me believed a single person is within the pages of that large book, Holmes?" I joked as I poured that self-promised brandy.

"Not at all. Hundreds, Watson. Legion in the purest word. I am absorbing the logs of Newgate Prison."

"Then I wish you all the heartfelt luck of your task, Holmes." I sank to my settee, feet up by the fire. "MY day was uneventful save a few early celebrants. We may be in for a lively time on the streets."

"Pah." Holmes retorted. "What is to happen on this night that has not already happened on every other past year's example? I proclaimed the very thing to the police today when they asked if I had heard of anything in regards to the tradition."

We ate supper early that night. I confess I was not in a completely restful frame of mind. I half-wanted to explore London for myself, but I was tired out from the long walk, and the fire was compelling. I also knew that the crowds in my chosen establishments—even my club—would have a youthful air bordering on mischievous. As a physician I see too many consequences of mischief, and I did not want to inadvertently witness shenanigans tonight.

Holmes' pleasant mood continued after the final tot of brandy. He kept his thick book in his lap, and on occasion, made notes in a separate pad of paper. The extent of his absorption was clear to me when I realised he had allowed his pipe to grow cold and was absently chewing on the stem in place of smoking as he read. This good mood was only reduced a quarter till midnight, when his eyes simply failed to read the print for one last page.

"Not to worry, old fellow." I pulled my own pipe away as he sighed and shut the book. "There is always tomorrow…and a few hundred pages if I am any judge."

"Five hundred and sixty-six, to be exact."

I was still chuckling when the door to his bedroom shut.

Weary as I was, I could not claim I was ready for sleep. That slight edginess of nerve remained although I lacked the ability to concentrate on any of my books or paperwork. I supposed it was the longstanding boyish enthusiasm for the season, coupled with the excitement of the changing of the months.

No long time passed but my impression was it was closer to an hour instead of the actual quarter-hour when I at last rose to my feet, prodded the fire needlessly, and strolled to the window overlooking the street with my hands in the pockets of my dressing-gown. I call the window "Holmes' window" in my mind. It is his method of viewing the world and he does to with an excellent commentary on his lips.

Tonight the empty streets were a swirl of the deepening yellow fog; I smelt its sulphur even through the windows and a haze of streetlamps shone back at me with difficulty. I remembered how my shadow had grown to irrational proportions on my way to our rooms, and even though it had been my shadow, the loss of proportion and perspective had disquieted me as much as it would any man who finds himself haunted by a leaping and ephemeral black djinn at his feet.

It was then that I believed I knew the true depths of the meaning of the word, "to be shadowed." I shivered slightly, and thought to our not-so-distant past when the shadow was supposed to be an extension of the soul itself; and to be shadowed was to be haunted.

It was in this contaminated mood, so different from that of my friend's, that I saw the staggering drunk lurch his way across the pavement.

He had been dressed for some sort of party, that I could tell for his eveningwear was undoubtedly fine if battered from too much enthusiasm. A flask of that enthusiasm still held within his grip and unsteady as he was his grip never faltered around the metal and he would stop at the nearest street-lamp, place his back against that metal trunk, and though he was easily twelve houses away from me, I saw how his head fell back and met the down-turning mouth of the drink.

Drink; drank; drunk. He was truly a drunk in the sense of the word, and his long, lean arms lifted, wiping the cloth across his mouth. He pushed himself away from the glowing pool of light and shambled closer to 221B. He stopped at the mid-way point and repeated his ritual; I could see him better in the mist and fancied I heard him sigh in satisfaction.

He was singing. It was not a tune with which I was familiar, and I have heard many in my new life within London. But the more I heard, the more chilled and unsettled I felt:

OH, Meet me by moonlight alone,
And then I will give you the hug,
With my arm round your neck tightly thrown,
I'm as up to the work as a Thug.
Behind you I softly will creep,
And taking you quite unawares,
On my prey like a tiger I'll leap;
If I happen to choke you, who cares?
I'm out with a ticket of leave,
Which by gulling the chaplain I got,
And I'm free to maim, murder and thieve,
For a cove he must live, must he not?
So meet me by moonlight alone,
Kind stranger, I beg and entreat,
And I'll make all your money my own,
And leave you half dead in the street.

He sang this several times, his drunken voice as wavering as his feet, and I thought that his throat, narrow and replete with bone and cartilage, ought to be a temptation for any garrotter even if he could overlook the seeming taunt of the song. His clothing was simply too fine. I could see the sprig of the hothouse flower hanging off the lapel within his open coat.

"And I'll make all your money my own…"

He went on his way. The fog swallowed him up in its yellow arms.

I turned away from the glass long moments later. The man had been a fright, but in some strange way he had broken the spell about me. I was no longer half-ready for some sort of excitement. That moment had come…and passed.

I was ready to rest…tomorrow would be another day.

And in the wake of Hallow's-Eve, that would be the day of All Saints.