Holmes had often lightly mocked me for my belief in the supernatural. ‘I cannot but suppose,’ he said, ‘that any apparent manifestation of mystical forces will, if subjected to rigorous scrutiny, yield a perfectly rational explanation.’ Yet in the time of my service in India and Afghanistan I had seen many things which, had he been there with me, would have taxed his logical powers to the utmost to explain. For myself I maintained a solid belief that there were indeed events for which no explanation in our material world could be found. But I would not argue with my friend, whose deductive powers constantly made my own theories and opinions look like those of a bungling tyro. So we left the matter open: there was enough crime in the everyday world to fully occupy us.
Nevertheless, such matters did occasionally arise. One day, as we were digesting one of Mrs Hudson’s fortiying breakfasts of cold roast fowl and ham fritters, we were both perusing the morning newspapers.
‘It is amusing to see,’ Holmes remarked as he laid down the Daily Telegraph, ‘that the more respected papers are not saying a word about the so-called haunted chemist’s shop in Fulham, while the story is all over the cheap prints.’
‘If it were one of the nobility and gentry who had been so troubled,’ I replied, ‘we would have been deluged with the idle speculations and idler opinions of The Times. But in the latest News of the World I have read an account given by the chemist’s wife, and even your sceptical mind must admit that there have been incontestable events, whatever cause you might assign to them.’
‘Such a series of manifestations,’ said Holmes, ‘is known to those who study such things as a “poltergeist”, a German term that means a noisy ghost. There are knocking sounds, and things are thrown unexpectedly. Usually there are no great or damaging events. It is a domestic nuisance but seldom a grave one. A common factor often found is that the household includes a girl on the threshold of womanhood, a time that makes their already giddy brains all the more unstable; and when serious investigations are undertaken, it is often found that the girl herself is wilfully making the noises and throwing the objects. She may seem a simple young creature, but the cunning of adolescent girls is underestimated.’
While I had enough experience of the tales of jinns and afreets in my service in the East, I had little knowledge of such things nearer home, and let the matter drop. However, it was revived unexpectedly that very afternoon. We had hardly laid down our spoons after enjoying Mrs Hudson’s excellent rhubarb crumble when we heard the familiar ring at the door and she bustled up to announce a visitor. ‘It’s that Mr Walsh from the haunted chemists,’ she said as she stacked our plates ready to bear them away, ‘and he seems in a right state, poor man.’
A moment later the chemist himself came through the door, a small man soberly and neatly dressed, and the creases in his trousers and the polish on his shoes spoke of a well-ordered life; but he was clearly flustered and dropped his hat as he was attempting to hang it on the stand. (I found myself beginning to think like Holmes, though no doubt he was far ahead of me in assessing our visitor.)
‘Pray sit down, Mr Walsh,’ said Holmes affably, motioning him to an armchair and setting a decanter, a syphon and a box of Trichinopoly cheroots on the table at his side, ‘and give us your account at your leisure. We have heard of your trying experiences and are anxious to help you in any way we can.’
Once suitably calmed and fortified, Mr Walsh embarked on his tale of woe. ‘You will have read,’ he began, ‘of the events that have troubled my shop and my home. The sensational press has hardly described them accurately, and the colour that they have added to the tale has resulted in the place becoming a veritable circus. I can’t say it has been bad for trade, as people have been coming in to buy things they don’t urgently need — sticking plasters, Beecham’s Powder, arsenic for rats — and you can see from their manner that they are expecting to see a ghost moaning in chains. But I was taking in a comfortable amount before all this started, and I would rather lose the extra custom in return for a quiet life.’
Holmes nodded encouragingly. Mr Walsh continued, ‘Anyway, I will begin at the beginning. We live above my shop in the Fulham Road, a busy and noisy thoroughfare, but it becomes quieter at the end of the working day. My family — my wife Maud and my only daughter Fanny, who is eleven years old — were sitting down to a supper prepared by the maid Marguerite, who lives in our attic and by day helps me in the shop. As we were eating I heard a crash from upstairs, the sound of a heavy object falling. I hastened up and found the wardrobe in the bedroom overturned on the floor. We supposed that it was a mere accident, though its cause was obscure. With the maid’s help it was restored to an upright position and we returned to our meal, leaving it to my wife to rearrange the contents of the wardrobe later.’
He refreshed his glass and continued, ‘Three days afterwards I came down into the shop in the morning to find that one of the big flasks of coloured water in the window had broken, leaving a red flood on the shop floor. Again it seemed like a chance accident, so we mopped it up and collected the broken glass, and I ordered a new flask as I am proud of the appearance of the front of my shop.
‘However, that was only the start of a chain of troubling events. We began to hear noises at any time of the day or night, sometimes mere thumps but often the crash of overturned furniture, And these events became daily, and then occurred several times a day. Sometimes objects flew through the air and struck the walls. There were sometimes household items, but often unfamiliar things, seemingly rubbish picked up in the streets, old shoes and bricks.
‘I consulted my wife. She was of the opinion that the premises were haunted by a ghost, an earthbound soul unable to rise to heavenly bliss, and that we should seek the services of an exorcist. The Church of England does not permit these practioners but we consulted some Catholics, the Servite friars at the church of Our Lady of Dolours a short way up the road, and they were good enough to find a person who would perform the necessary rites. He arrived with bell, book and candle and did his share of mumbling and sprinkling — but, as I expected, it made not the slightest difference and the manifestations continued as before.
‘We had heard, of course, of the new science of Spiritualism, and my wife thought that, if indeed we had a trapped ghost, a Spiritualist medium might be able to get in touch with it, and perhaps even release it from earthly captivity so that we would be left in peace. After consulting a friend she was able to find such a person, a Mrs Elvira Staggage.’
After taking another glass of brandy and soda he resumed his tale: ‘The medium duly arrived, a substantial lady in her fifties whom you would not have looked at twice in the street. She explained that it would be necessary to hold what she called a “séance”, a meeting of believers whose combined forces could summon the spirit and oblige it to communicate with her.
‘By now I was beginning to regret having called her in, but in the increasingly distant hope of a quiet life I assented, and on the following Sunday evening a rag-tag of odd-looking folk began to arrive: thin spinsters, wild-haired men, a couple of persons of colour. They assembled in the front room, seated around our dining table on chairs and ottomans and boxes we brought up from the shop when we ran out of furniture. We were asked to extinguish the lights. The proceedings began with a hymn. ‘Nearer, my God, to Thee’, which seemed appropriate enough at the time but now I see it as an attempt to put a respectable gloss on the ridiculous events that followed.
‘We were required to link hands in a ring, and nothing happened for some time. Then the medium began to moan and twitch, and spoke in a strange deep voice that seemed not her own and purported to be that of what she called a “spirit guide” who, for some reason, claimed to be a Red Indian. Another Spiritualist in the audience asked this person to summon the ghost that was troubling us. At that moment there was a storm of bumps and crashes, and a large brass candlestick flew through the air and smashed against the wall, narrowly missing several people crowded into the small room.
‘A minute later Mrs Staggage regained her usual voice and announced that the spirit had left her, which I must own was a relief to me and to the few sensible people who remained in the room. Those who had attended the event, evidently satisfied by what they had witnessed, picked up their coats and prepared to leave. Mrs Staggage, however, announced that there would be a further meeting the following Sunday at the same time — that is, tomorrow at six in the evening. I cannot say that I am looking forward to it.’
Mr Walsh took a further deep draught of brandy and soda, as anyone in his plight might need to, as Holmes replied, ‘In these cases it is difficult to distinguish earnest belief, whether or not it is mistaken, from the actions of the outright charlatan eager to enjoy mystery — often combined with financial profit. Mr Walsh, my face is now too well known for me to attend tomorrow’s proceedings, but I shall send my trusted assistant Dr Watson to observe and report, after which we shall decide on what course to take. Meanwhile, be assured that we are pursuing your case with all the means at our disposal, In the circumstances I cannot promise more.’
Mr Walsh seemed somewhat cheered by this declaration, thanked us and left, a little unsteady on his feet after the repeated libations of material spirits that had sustained him through his account.
Holmes turned to me and said, ‘Watson, you know my methods. Go, watch and report on everything you have seen. Do not omit the smallest detail, which may uncover the facts of the matter.’
Indeed I did know my friend’s methods, which were usually to pursue the quarry himself while I trailed along in his wake like a dinghy towed behind a man of war. But I was flattered by his evident trust and resolved to do the best I could.
— To be continued.
© Tachybaptus 2026
