Gaslight Arcanum: Uncanny Tales of Sherlock Holmes

The Deadly Sin of Sherlock Holmes

by Tom English

Hundreds of years ago, around the time of Magna Carta, while England endured the growing pains of an empire in its infancy, and kings and kingdoms waged endless wars across Europe; and long before Prince Wilhelm von Ormstein’s dalliance with the woman Irene Adler, the aftermath of which, were it not for the intervention of Sherlock Holmes, might have ended in a royal scandal in Bohemia, yet another chapter of history was being written in a Benedictine monastery in an obscure Bohemian village. Its consequences would span centuries, and dreadful would be its effects.

The architect of this singular item sat hunched behind a tiny, splintered table in a bare cell illuminated only by a thin shaft of moonlight from a high, narrow window. He was dying. His arms, legs and face were lacerated with hundreds of self-inflicted cuts, his clothing scarlet with blood. When three robed men appeared at his door, he looked up weakly from his bloodstained fingers and smiled.

“Where is it, Brother?” asked one of the men.

“Of what do you speak, Abbot?”

“Brother Josef, Brother Ehren, bring the candles,” the abbot said to the two monks behind him. “Search his cell — quickly!” He turned back to the man seated before him. “We know of the hellish instrument you have forged this night. God has revealed it to me in a dream.”

“More a nightmare, I should think. For the power of the thing shall be hideous, its ministry implacable.”

“How dare you use consecrated paper!” said Brother Josef.

“Where is it?” the abbot asked again.

“Gone out into the world,” said the dying man, clinging to the edge of his blood-smeared desk.

“You have corrupted an instrument of God,” cried Brother Josef. “Where is it?”

“As I have said, Josef, it is gone. Spirited away by the Prince of the Air.”

“Satan!” Brother Ehren said with disgust.

“Certainly not your weakling god,” he replied.

“You stand at death’s door,” said the abbot. “Have you no fear? Tell us now where the thing is hidden.”

“Hidden?” laughed the man behind the table. “In this tiny room?” He coughed hard and struggled to regain his breath. “Nay,” he said hoarsely, “though you search for it, you shall not find it. For I have sent it out into the world. To baptize all men into a new age of darkness.”

On a bone-chilling night in early May of 1891, a hooded figure crouched over the dead body of a young woman on Clements Lane in the district of Westminster, London. An icy rain spattered against the grey cobbles and ran away in grimy rivulets towards the Thames. From the south the faint peal of Big Ben marked the midnight hour. While two other men watched from nearby, the veiled figure knelt before the corpse, a Bull’s-eye lantern in one hand. His free hand moved quickly and expertly over the woman’s body as he probed the bloodstained clothing. After several moments, he heard a voice above him ask, “Well?”

The man looked up from the corpse. “Well what, Lestrade?” he asked irritably. “This infernal rain has scrubbed the street clean. Despite what the good doctor may have written about my abilities, I cannot work without clues.”

“She was obviously another drab who got more than she asked for,” said Inspector Lestrade, pulling up the collar of his coat. “But her face, Mr. Holmes! Look at her face! Why would anyone do such a thing?”

“This was no streetwalker, Lestrade. Observe the clothing. It appears to be new and of the highest quality. This woman was dressed for an evening out. What brought her here, so far from the beaten path?”

Holmes tossed back the hood of his Ulster. The rain had died away to a fine mist that shone as a halo around the street lamp at the end of the lane. “This rain started a little after 3 p.m., but this woman is not dressed for inclement weather. As you can see, she has no cloak at all.” He motioned to the man in black coat and derby standing next to Lestrade. “Watson, notice the blood about the eyes and mouth — how thickly coagulated it is.”

Watson knelt and winced at the mutilated features.

“Yet the body is face up,” said Holmes. “The heavy rain would have washed away most of this blood — had it not been so thickly clotted. Now, since you put the time of death at only a couple hours ago, and it has been raining since three…”

“Then the wounds were inflicted somewhere else,” Watson said. “Some place dry enough to allow the blood to congeal.”

“Come,” said Holmes, “we can learn nothing more here. The scent has grown cold, and so have we. What will Mrs. Watson have to say, should I detain you any longer?” He turned to Lestrade, who quickly gestured to two uniformed policemen to remove the dead body. “If I can be of any further assistance…”

Lestrade watched the two men walk down the lane toward the Strand and disappear into the shadows. A few minutes later he heard two shrill blasts from a cab whistle — telling him that Holmes had hailed a hansom.

That same night, several streets away, a man sat alone in a dimly lit room and wept bitterly. He held something in his arms, something heavy and cool, which he gently caressed. He laid the object on his lap, wiped the tears from his eyes, and then opened it with a trembling hand.

“It’s gone!” he cried. “Gone!”

When Watson called on Holmes at his Baker Street lodgings the next morning, he found the detective sitting before the fire, absently scraping away at the violin that rested across his knees. Each screeching note from the Stradivarius sent a chill up the doctor’s spine, making him cringe and grit his teeth. “Holmes! If you please!” he cried, tossing the morning newspaper on the table.

Holmes glanced at the headlines. “Miss Anne Skipton. Certainly not a streetwalker, and yet The Times is alluding to the Whitechapel murders of two and a half years ago.”

“You must admit,” said Watson, taking the other chair by the fire, “there has been no murder this gruesome since the days of Jack the Harlot killer.”

“And already The Times is capitalizing on it.”

Holmes set aside the Stradivarius and was about to say something when he was interrupted by a knock at the door. Mrs. Hudson entered, followed by an elderly man wearing a battered black hat and faded cassock. A dull metal cross hung from a chain about the man’s neck.

“Ah! A client,” said Holmes. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

The man removed his hat and bowed, revealing a thick, tangle of gray hair. “I am Brother Eduardo. I have come on behalf of … well, you will not have heard of our order. It is a little-known offshoot of the Benedictines, whose mission is to safeguard certain antiquities.”

Watson smiled. “A secret society?”

“Excuse me,” Holmes interrupted, “this gentleman is my good friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, and I am Sherlock Holmes.”

The old man nodded. “Not secret, Dr. Watson. The Church is well aware of our presence. Perhaps, though, our day-to-day activities may be somewhat obscure.”

Holmes motioned for the man to be seated.

“I was referred to you by a Mr. Lestrade. He feels my problem is not a matter for Scotland Yard.”

“And what is your problem?”

“My brothers and I have hopes that you will be able to locate a missing book.”

Holmes turned to Watson. “Our friend Lestrade has a habit of sending us his … more interesting cases.”

“He told me of both your amazing abilities and your genuine goodness,” the monk said anxiously. “And I pray you will be able to discern my deep sincerity when I say that this matter is of the utmost importance. I would not have come to you were it not so.”

“I discern that you are indeed a man without guile,” said Holmes reassuringly. “Surely you are also a humble man, to be so long in the service of your order as to attain a position of authority and yet choose to remain a novice.”

At the surprise on Brother Eduardo’s face, Watson used a finger to trace a circle about the crown of his own head: “The lack of a tonsure, quite elementary.”

Holmes sighed heavily.

“In many ways, Mr. Holmes,” said the monk, “we are all novices. Not one of us is ever fully capable of solving the great mysteries of this world.”

“Really!” said Holmes. “You quite obviously have not come here to flatter me, Friar. So please, tell me about this missing book.”

“It is a bound manuscript known as the Codex Exsecrabilis.”

“Cursed Book,” remarked Watson, taking notes.

“Watson,” said Holmes, “be a good fellow and fetch my copy of Librorum Prohibitorum.”

“You will not find it listed on the Church’s index of banned books,” said Brother Eduardo. “It is a singular work … composed in the early thirteenth century by an apostate monk in Podlažice, Bohemia. The manuscript pages mysteriously disappeared the night they were written, and were not recovered until 1477. By then the pages had been bound.”

“Describe the physical appearance of the book,” Holmes interrupted.

“It consists of vellum sheets gathered in wooden boards. The boards are covered in leather and ornamented with a metallic cross — an inverted cross. It is rather large and weighs over 32 pounds. The codex remained in Benedictine possession for over a hundred years … at a monastery in Broumov, until it was forcibly taken to Prague to become part of the collection of Rudolf II.”

“Bohemian Kings,” muttered Holmes, “I am besieged with the consequences of their mischief.”

“Rudolf was a student of the occult,” said the monk.

“An avocation that did nothing to help him prevent the Thirty Years’ War.”

“And when the Swedish army plundered the region, his entire collection was stolen and removed to Stockholm. A few years later the Swedish Royal Library allowed us to purchase the codex. Since then — except for three or four brief periods — the book has been in our safekeeping. Until three days ago. We are extremely anxious to locate it!”

“No doubt. Such a valuable and coveted book as…”

“Our desire to recover the codex does not stem from cupidity. The book has the power to corrupt the souls of decent men!”

“Your desire to protect us from this book is a noble one, Friar, but I believe each of us should be free to read and decide for ourselves what is moral and praiseworthy.”

“But Mr. Holmes, the Codex has been linked to numerous crimes! In fact, it is directly responsible for several ghastly murders.”

“Is this book so poorly written,” Holmes asked drily, “as to incite the reader to violence? Then why not simply fling the offending volume into the fireplace?”

The old monk nervously fingered the tiny cross hanging over his heart and stared mutely into the detective’s piercing eyes.

“Friar, if I am to help you, I must have all the facts, and I must have them now.”

“The facts will sound like fancy, I fear,” the monk said at last.

“Allow me to be the judge of that.”

“The codex is a compendium of evil acts, Mr. Holmes — all of them hideous, hellish. When anyone reads a passage from the book — and I stress, anyone — that person is compelled to enact what has been read, no matter how monstrous the deed. Later, after the evil has been enacted, the passage literally fades from the page, leaving absolutely no trace of the words.”

“That is indeed a fanciful tale,” said Holmes. “One worthy of Oscar Wilde, I might add.”

“The book must be found,” Brother Eduardo pleaded, “before it falls into the hands of another poor soul who will be powerless to resist its call.”

“But, Friar,” Holmes said soothingly, “a book composed by a thirteenth-century Benedictine scholar is undoubtedly written in Latin. How many people tramping the streets of London would be able to read such a book?”

“To be precise, the codex was written in the Vulgate. But that has never prevented anyone from reading it, regardless of a knowledge of Latin.”

“And how do you explain this?”

“It is difficult to explain the unexplainable,” the old man said slowly. “The author of the codex had been confined to his cell for breaking monastic vows. His abbot had ordered him to do penance by transcribing several sacred documents. The manuscript should have been a common prayer book, but Brother Moriarty had long been under the sway of the Prince of Darkness.”

“Moriarty,” said Watson. “That does not sound Germanic.”

“It is ancient Gaelic for ‘greatly exalted.’ In a perverse way, he lived up to his name: power accompanies exaltation — and his manuscript has become a source of relentless power. According to legend, he called upon Satan to anoint his writing, then repeatedly cut himself to supply the blood with which the codex was written. When finished, he was more dead than alive and the manuscript had mysteriously vanished.”

Holmes withdrew a pipe from his pocket and examined its charred contents distractedly.

“Throughout the ages there have been many blasphemous books,” continued Brother Eduardo. “Were this simply another such volume, we would not concern ourselves with it, but the parchment upon which it was written had been consecrated for sacred documents. Moriarty poured into that parchment everything that is evil. Somehow, on the night of its satanic creation, the codex took on a life of its own. Now, it is trying to revert to its original holy state.”

“Fascinating,” said Holmes, yawning.

“You must believe me! When an evil passage is read from the codex the reader is forced to enact that evil — and the passage is then wiped clean from the book! I assure you, Sir, many of its pages are now blank!”

“I believe only in those things which can be proven. You claim the book has special properties, but you have given me no proof.”

The old monk stood and bowed. “You were our last hope, Mr. Holmes. Please forgive me for taking so much of your time.”

“A moment, Friar. I may not believe the legend tied to the codex, but I will help you to recover it. Tell me the circumstances surrounding its disappearance. You said it was three days ago. Where?”

“The library of All Hallows in Longbourn.”

“I was not aware of a monastery in Longbourn.”

“Our home is in Rome. We were in London on Church business and were extended hospitality by the priest at All Hallows.”

“You brought the codex to London? Why?”

“It accompanies us wherever we go. I cannot give you the full reason for this — other than to say we are sworn to protect it.”

“Very well,” said Holmes. “We will accompany you to Longbourn.”

Judged by its dour façade, the Church of All Hallows was particularly uninviting: a squat and decrepit edifice of crumbling brick and stained glass windows darkened by decades of soot. At one corner of the church, fronting the narrow street below, an imposing tower rose up against a gray sky; a much older structure, built of huge blocks of blackened stone, that stood out from the rest like a rook on the corner of a chess board, thought Watson, stepping from the four-wheeler.

“How long have you been staying here?” Holmes asked, following Brother Eduardo inside the tower.

“We arrived six days ago,” said the monk. “We would have been on our way the next morning but Brother Paolo fell ill. Father Twitchell insisted we stay until he was well enough to travel. He said we would have the place to ourselves, for he was going up to Cambridge to attend to a Church matter and would be away for four days.”

“When did he depart?”

“The morning after our arrival.”

“And when was the last time you remember seeing the codex?”

Brother Eduardo opened a large oak door and waited for Holmes and Watson to enter. “It was certainly here in his library the night after he left. It was gone the next morning.”

The priest’s study was large but austere and, like the tower rising above it, clearly much older than the rest of the church. Heavy beams crisscrossed the ceiling and extended down the windowless walls. At one end of the room was a massive desk covered with curling documents and open books. Behind the desk a high shelf held numerous volumes recording births, burials, and other church history, their leather bindings dry and brittle with age. All this was illuminated by a single great log burning in the massive fireplace.

Holmes circled the room, making a quick inspection of the bare floor. “Other than yourself,” he asked the monk, “who else might have had access to this room?”

“Only my brothers. The study was kept locked to safeguard the codex.”

“How can you be certain of this?”

“Upon his departure Father Twitchell entrusted me with the keys to the Church, including this room.”

“Then I wish to speak to your brothers — but to each individually. Please go and ask one of them to step in.”

Holmes walked to the fireplace. It was wide and deep, and almost a foot taller than the detective. He extended his hands before the blazing log. “I daresay, Watson, I could fit my entire bed upon this hearth. No more chilly nights!” he said longingly.

The library door opened slowly and the first of two monks entered, a stout, balding man who went by the name of Brother Paolo. Holmes soon ascertained that the man had been seized with severe abdominal pains the night of his arrival and, until yesterday morning, had been far too ill to leave his bed. The detective thanked him and instructed the monk to show in his brother Eugenio.

When Eugenio entered, followed by Brother Eduardo, Holmes quickly realized the young man was a true novice, for he was hardly more than eighteen and demonstrated little of the qualities of meekness and humility that characterized the other monks. Holmes turned to the fireplace. “This is an inviting blaze. Certainly it is a temptation for someone in possession of an undesirable book. Tell me, Brother Eugenio, could the codex have found its way into the fire?”

“We do not burn books,” the youth said petulantly.

“A book does not simply disappear from a locked room.”

“We believe the codex has escaped,” said Brother Eduardo, “just as it did the night of its creation.”

“Escaped?” Holmes said peevishly. “Did it flap its pages and fly up the chimney? I should like to speak with the priest on his return.”

“He is due back tomorrow, but surely you cannot suspect Father Twitchell of taking the book!”

“At present, I suspect no one,” said Holmes, “But I must question everyone. I shall call upon him tomorrow afternoon.”

In the carriage, on the way back to Baker Street, Watson turned to Holmes and asked, “The murder last night — could it somehow be related?”

“Possibly,” said Holmes, lighting a cigarette.

“Could the codex have some occult power?”

“We have dealt with many mysteries which at first appeared to have their explanation in the supernatural — like the case of that wretched hound upon the moors. In the end, all of them proved to have a logical explanation. No, Watson, when it comes to the art of detection, I give no credence to tales of the supernatural. Like the hound, these bothersome little things nip at our heels and send us hurrying down the wrong path of investigation. How unfortunate that our history is riddled with myths, ghost stories, rumors of witches. On the stage of life, they have provided unintentional moments of ‘misdirection’: for as long as our focus is upon such things the real and important matters of human existence will always elude us.

“Nevertheless,” he continued, “I am eager to pit my skills against the bibliomane who stole this book.”

“But if the book has indeed fallen into the hands of some as yet unknown collector, it is hardly likely he will part with it. The book might be shelved in any one of a hundred private libraries.”

“If this enigmatic gathering of paper and ink is indeed a nexus for crime, then its presence cannot remain a secret for very long. I assure you, it will come to light.”

Hours later, in a boardinghouse in London’s East End, a weary man slumped in the corner of a shabby room and opened the Codex Exsecrabilis. He ran his hand down the blank page and shook at the memory of what he had done to the retired seaman in the next room. He would have to be going soon, he thought, before the body was discovered; but then, that probably would not be until the next morning. He turned the page in the book and began to weep again. He wept at the prospect of killing once more, or perhaps doing far worse; and because he knew he would go on reading - until he had reached the final page of the codex.

Holmes was mildly surprised when Father Twitchell arrived at Baker Street the next morning. “I knew you wished to speak to me about the missing codex,” said the priest. “I returned from Cambridge early this morning and decided to save you a trip by coming here straightaway.”

“What can you tell me of this strange book?” asked Holmes.

“Only what I have read of it in Brother Eduardo’s monograph. Were you aware of the pamphlet?”

“I would be interested in reading it. Do you know of any book collectors in your parish?”

Before Father Twitchell could answer, there was a knock at the door: Watson entered the room and quickly introduced himself to the priest, who shook the doctor’s hand vigorously.

“I confess to being one of your avid readers,” said the priest. “Such marvellous adventures — quite exhilarating.”

“Excuse me, Father, are there any book collectors among your flock?” asked Holmes.

“Not that I am aware.” The priest turned to the shelves above Holmes’ desk. “You have some interesting volumes here. Are you a collector of books?”

“A book is not unlike a soup tureen. Though some may covet it for its shape and pattern, it is only the broth inside that interests me. No, I keep books only to have easy access to the information they record, but I did, however, notice a few rare volumes in your own library. Do you collect books?”

“Not unlike you; only for what they can tell me.”

“Is there anyone in your parish in desperate need of money? Someone who might have chanced upon the codex, realized its rarity, and seized upon the opportunity to take it to a bookseller?”

“A few of my parishioners are indeed poor. But the codex was in my study, and my study is not open to the church. In fact, it is always kept locked.”

“May I ask why?”

“Even priests need some small bit of privacy, Mr. Holmes. At any rate, I hope that you do not suspect anyone in my congregation.”

“Not at present. But if I do not soon uncover a substantial lead in this investigation, I will need to start questioning the more needy members of your church.”

“I am afraid I would not be able to assist you in such an endeavour. Most of what I know was told to me in the privacy of the confessional. I cannot break my vow to protect this confidentiality.”

“That is admirable, Father, but how far should such a vow extend? Should one protect the identity of a thief?

“No one in my congregation is guilty of stealing the codex, Mr. Holmes.”

“The book did not simply vanish into thin air.”

“You must not underestimate the supernatural power of this book.”

“Now you are speaking nonsense, Father.”

“Why is it so hard for you to believe in the supernatural? You have devoted your life and talents to the struggle between good and evil.”

“The struggle between good and evil is your domain. I apply myself to the scientific study of crime and criminals.”

“Then let us lay aside any theological bearing on the matter, and simply contemplate a metaphysical universe — a sphere beyond this existence.”

“Can I see it, or touch it?” asked Holmes sardonically. “Where, pray tell, is this metaphysical world of yours?”

“It surrounds us. But as long as our focus remains fixed on the affairs of the physical world it remains invisible to our mortal eyes.”

“Two worlds inhabiting the same space?”

“Even the materialist admits we simultaneously inhabit two plains of existence. We move about a three-dimensional world even as we are passing through a fourth dimension, that of time.”

Holmes removed the watch from his vest pocket. “The passage of time I can measure. Show me your measurements of the so-called supernatural world, or do not waste my time.”

The priest stood and took his hat. “The power of the codex is real, Mr. Holmes. I wish it were not.” He strode to the door. “You would do well to read Brother Eduardo’s monograph.”

“Thank you, Father. And may I recommend Winwood Reade’s Martyrdom of Man to you?”

When the priest was gone, Watson threw down his notebook and scowled. “You know, Holmes, at times you really are too much!”

Holmes spent the better part of the next day in the Reading Room of the British Museum. When Watson met him for lunch at Simpson’s, Holmes laid a thick pamphlet on the doctor’s charger.

Watson read the title aloud, “A Most Uncommon Prayer Book, Being a History of the Codex Exsecrabilis and a Documentation of its Known Crimes. It looks rather extensive.”

“The sins of the book, Watson, documented by the friar in shocking detail. The man’s willingness to believe in the absurd is unseemly, but his treatise bears all the hallmarks of serious scholarship.”

“What a remarkable concept that one should commit a crime for no other reason than because one has read of it in a book.”

“The idea has interest, for a crime committed in this manner would be without apparent motive, and therefore more difficult to solve.”

Holmes lit his pipe. “Brother Eduardo links the codex to many of the most sensational crimes of the last several hundred years — all of them supposedly committed during those ‘three or four brief periods’ to which he alluded, when the codex was not in the brotherhood’s possession.” He blew out a tiny cloud of smoke. “Our humble friar attempts to cast a new light on the early eighteenth-century crimes of Jonathan Wild, and I must say, his monograph has me rethinking the poisonous career of Thomas Griffiths Wainwright.”

“So what is our next move?”

“Lunch, dear fellow — we can do nothing until another crime is committed.”

When Watson was awakened by his wife early the next morning, he learned that Holmes had sent a message urging the doctor to meet him at Scotland Yard. Although he had planned on devoting the day to his Kensington practice, Watson had long ago developed a craving for Holmes’ little adventures and was soon in a cab racing toward Victoria Embankment. Upon his arrival, Holmes informed the doctor of an event he hoped would be the key to recovering the missing codex: sometime during the previous morning, a Longbourn bookseller had repeatedly stabbed his wife with a paper knife.

“Mr. Avery Felton,” said Holmes as he and Watson entered the man’s prison cell, “my name is Sherlock Holmes. I am a private consulting detective come to further investigate the circumstances that have brought you to this wretched place. Cooperate with me and I will do all I can to help you.”

Felton stared at the floor. “I have read of you, Mr. Holmes, but you cannot help me. I killed my wife … stabbed her in the back … as she washed the breakfast dishes! I loved her!” he sobbed. “Why did I do it?”

“Have you come across a leather-bound manuscript, adorned with an upside-down cross?”

He shook his head.

“Are you certain — it is a heavy book, very old, some of its leaves may have been blank.”

“I would remember such a book. What does it have to do with me?”

“Where did you go yesterday?”

“Nowhere, I stayed home.”

“Then why did you kill your wife, Mr. Felton? Did you have an argument with her?”

“My head is spinning.”

“Think, man!”

“We were having breakfast. Everything was perfect. She left to clean up. I was lounging at the table with the morning post.”

“Was there anything unusual in the mail?”

“Just letters from other booksellers.” Felton ran a hand across his face. “Except one which was absolute gibberish.”

“In what way?”

“I am not a formally educated man, Mr. Holmes. I am well read, and I understand many things, but I do not speak any foreign languages.”

“Where would this letter be now?”

He shrugged. “Still on the table, I suppose.”

Holmes tossed several torn envelopes and creased sheets of paper upon the table of his sitting room. “These letters are unremarkable. As Felton said, they are simply correspondence from his associates about book-related nonsense.”

“So we came up empty-handed,” said Watson.

“Perhaps not.”

Holmes pulled a magnifying lens from his desk drawer. “The only other scrap of paper in Felton’s place was this blank piece I found upon his kitchen floor. That alone is significant.” He briefly studied the item. “It is, as I first suspected, a very old piece of parchment … a fragment of a much larger leaf … torn off in some haste. The creases confirm that it was folded to fit inside an envelope. Also, there are several tiny water stains, which I believe are noteworthy. Beyond these salient points, it is nothing more than a thin sheet of sheep skin … soaked and stretched, then scraped smooth to remove the hair.” He took a large beaker from the shelf. “Unless I can prove that it was torn from our missing codex.”

Holmes raised the parchment to the light. “Behold, Watson,” he said, “an invention as important to the dissemination of knowledge in its day as Gutenberg’s first printing press was in the fifteenth century! Proving what Plato wrote about the impetus of need: ‘Necessity, who is the mother of invention’!”

“How so?” laughed Watson.

“Parchment was invented in the ancient Greek city of Pergamum,” said Holmes, “where — according to The Book of Revelation — Satan was enthroned.” He crumpled the fragment and dropped it into the beaker. “In the second century B.C. Pergamum established a great library rivaling even that of Alexandria.” He added just enough water to cover the parchment and began stirring the mixture briskly. “Up until then, the collected knowledge of civilization had been transcribed on papyrus, which was produced only along the Nile delta in Alexandria; and which had been over-harvested towards local extinction. Whether due to an inability to supply the material, or a desire to shut down its rival library, Alexandria ceased exporting papyrus.”

Holmes decanted the water into a test tube. “So Pergamum invented a more than adequate substitute — one much cheaper and easier to produce than papyrus. It remains an excellent example of adaptation under changing circumstances.”

“Holmes, you amaze me!”

He waved away the compliment. “I am preparing a monograph on paper and papermaking. It will be an invaluable resource in criminal investigation, and I daresay, had it been available at the time, the Bank Holiday Blackmail Case would have been brought to a far more satisfactory conclusion!”

Holmes withdrew a vial of white crystals and tossed a few into the test tube. “Parchment allowed the great Library at Pergamum to continue operating — until Mark Antony emptied its shelves and made Cleopatra a wedding present of its 200,000 volumes. She was a conniving woman, Watson.” He removed the stopper from a reagent bottle of clear liquid and inserted a glass pipette.

“Now, let us see what this torn leaf has to tell us,” said Holmes. “Brother Eduardo insists the codex was written in blood. If at some time there was blood on this scrap of parchment, a sufficient amount of it has been dissolved into this solution. This reagent will precipitate that blood as a brownish sediment.” He added several drops and swirled the test tube.

“Nothing!” snarled Holmes. “Perfectly clean. So much for legends!”

“What if the legend is true,” asked Watson, “and all trace of the evil writing has vanished?”

“Blood does not simply vanish. Some trace would remain, and my hemoglobin test is capable of detecting blood at concentrations of barely one part in a million.” He smoothed out the parchment and blotted it dry. “Either there was no blood on this parchment to begin with, or…”

Holmes walked to the fireplace and filled his pipe. “How does one prove or disprove the supernatural?” he murmured, dropping into his chair. He took off his shoes and sat cross-legged, smoking his pipe.

Watson awoke at the call of his name. He had dropped off to sleep with The Times in his lap, while Holmes had been puffing at his pipe and, a while later, quietly puttering about his desk.

“Watson, would you mind taking care of something for me?” asked Holmes.

The doctor arose from his chair and stretched. “Run an errand? Yes, of course.”

“I have written out some instructions for you,” he said, extending a folded sheet. “Please read them and make certain everything is clear.”

Watson unfolded the sheet, glanced at his friend’s distinctive scrawl, and gasped. He looked down at Holmes sitting calmly at his desk. The detective’s left hand was wrapped with a handkerchief, his jack-knife and a saucer of dark red liquid at his elbow. Upon the blotter lay a Latin dictionary and the doctor’s service revolver.

Watson dropped the note. His body abruptly stiffened as the most abhorrent idea went racing through his mind. “No!” he cried in genuine terror. A cold sweat broke out over his face, which had gone as white as a sheet. Within seconds he began to shake involuntarily — except for his hands, which he kept tightly clenched by his sides.

Holmes realized the doctor was struggling hard to control himself: his mouth had become a pale trembling line, his eyes two coals burning with hatred. Holmes glanced at the revolver upon the desk, then quickly returned his gaze to the seething volcano of emotion standing before him. His hand moved toward the gun but Watson sprung upon it like a Bengal tiger, snatching the revolver from the desk.

Watson pressed the barrel to Holmes’ forehead and gazed into the detective’s widening eyes. “God help me,” he said, squeezing the trigger.

When the hammer fell Holmes flinched at its sharp click.

Watson dropped the gun upon the desk and crumpled to the floor where he lay sobbing uncontrollably. Holmes lifted him into a chair and handed him a glass of whiskey.

“Holmes! How could you?” he cried.

“My dear friend,” said Holmes, deep concern written upon his features, “please forgive me, but I could turn to no other for such a test. You have a heart that is genuinely good. Fair weather or foul, you are constant in your friendship, and so you have become for me a barometer by which I am able to gauge all that is noble in men.”

“I wanted to kill you! And I would have, had—”

“Had the revolver been loaded, but I have far too much respect for your prowess with a gun to—”

“Did you stop to think I could have bashed in your bloody brains with the butt of it!”

“That idea,” Holmes said resentfully, “was not written upon the parchment!” He took the empty glass from Watson’s trembling hand and moved to refill it. “Nevertheless,” he said softly, “you are right. It was a dangerous experiment … which might well have proved deadly.” He extended another whiskey to the doctor. “And it was indeed a sin to pull it on my dearest friend.”

Watson wiped his sweat-soaked face and took the glass. “You might have warned me.”

“That would have ruined the whole experiment. Besides, you would have refused to read it.”

Holmes picked up the note where Watson had dropped it. “Astonishing!” he cried. “It is blank again!” He hurried to the microscope to examine the fragment. After a minute he looked up from the eyepiece. “Not a trace of what I wrote — not even an impression made by the pen!”

Holmes walked to the fireplace, the parchment gripped tightly in his clenched fist. “Now that I know the power of the codex is genuine,” he said angrily, “I want to know why the accursed thing was not destroyed centuries ago? All those despicable crimes could have been prevented!”

After several minutes, Holmes coolly remarked, “The apostate monk who created the thing … this Brother Moriarty … in many ways, he was a Napoleon of crime. Even now, hundreds of years after his death, he dispatches his orders on these parchment leaves.”

Holmes gazed at the wrinkled page in his hand. “That miserable bookseller rotting away in jail is a pawn. Whoever mailed this page to him simply wanted to drag a red herring across the trail of my investigation. Whereas it was intended to lead me astray, it has only served to strengthen an earlier suspicion.” He shoved the parchment into the drawer of his desk and locked it. “Watson, are you recovered enough to accompany me to Longbourn?”

“If the codex was half as dangerous as you claimed, you should have destroyed it when it first came into your possession,” said Holmes.

“For hundreds of years we Benedictines have devoted ourselves to the preservation of books,” said Brother Eduardo. “The codex is one of a kind. Destroying it would have been a crime.”

“But by not destroying it,” said Watson, “you and your brothers are indirectly responsible for far worse crimes.”

“But we have worked hard to keep the book from being read.”

“And yet it has been read,” said Holmes.

“True, there have been two or three times when the codex was not in our possession.”

“I believe there have been many times,” said Holmes. “Your monograph was published over a decade ago. I believe it needs extensive updating. The Whitechapel murders, for instance. Who was reading your book in 1888?”

“The codex did escape that year … for several months,” said the monk, unable to meet Holmes’ gaze. “But we have tried so hard. We have cared for it for centuries.”

“Cared for it?” asked Watson.

“The Brotherhood considers the codex to be a living thing,” said Father Twitchell.

“At first,” said Brother Eduardo, “our order saved the book from the fire because of its rarity. Years later, we made a startling discovery about the nature of the codex. It had developed a form of intelligence.” He paused. “We believe it has a living soul.”

“You are quite mad,” said Holmes.

“It bore the sins which one man poured onto its pages. Now it seeks redemption from those sins.”

“You may leave us now, Friar,” said Holmes.

“Like any soul, it is deserving of redemption,” said Brother Eduardo, walking to the door. “But unlike the man whose sins it now bears, the codex is not human … and therefore, not eligible for the same redemption offered to men.”

“Astonishing,” cried Watson, after the monk had left the room.

“That old man actually views the book as his brother,” said Father Twitchell, “a member of his own order, in fact — which is why the codex accompanies the Brotherhood whenever they travel.”

“This case has given me a headache,” said Holmes, walking to the fireplace. “Father, may I trouble you for some water?”

“Allow me to make you a cup of tea.”

“No, please, water is fine.”

When the priest returned with a glass of water, Holmes thanked him and drained it of all but an inch of liquid. “I have been admiring your fireplace,” he said. “I have never seen a hearth as large as this one. I imagine it is quite ancient.”

“Like the rest of this tower,” said Father Twitchell. “This hearth actually took up the better part of the wall. I had the opening made smaller by bricking up the front edges.”

“And still it is a hearth of enormous dimensions,” said Holmes. “But returning to more important matters, someone in your parish is responsible for mailing a page of the codex to Mr. Avery Felton.”

Holmes crossed over to the priest’s desk and set down the glass. When he withdrew his hand he managed to spill the remainder of the water. “How clumsy of me. I have made a mess of your desk.”

“That is quite all right,” said Father Twitchell, with thinly disguised irritation.

“When I received news that a bookseller had murdered his wife,” said Holmes, “I naturally assumed the codex had come into his possession.”

Father Twitchell nodded, eyeing the spilled water. The desktop, weathered and slightly warped from years of similar abuse, was far from being level, and already the tiny puddle had begun to migrate toward a battered leather volume he had been reading. He glanced about for something to mop up the liquid and, when nothing presented itself, grew visibly agitated. When the water had crept to within half an inch of the book the priest hurriedly snatched it up before it got wet. “What is your point?” he snapped, carefully examining the edges of the volume.

“Father Twitchell,” asked Holmes, “do you have a burden for books as well as for souls?”

“I beg your pardon,” he said, recovering his composure. “It has been a long and trying day. What else did you wish to ask me?”

“Could someone in your parish have wished to divert my investigation?”

“I am not sure.”

“Of course, there is another possible motive: sending that page could have been a plea for help. Tell me, Father, how does one track down a book which, according to Brother Eduardo, does not wish to be found?”

“Where would you go, if you were overburdened by the sins of your past?”

“I might seek a priest,” said Holmes. “One who would hear my confession, or — if my sins were on paper — one who would read them. For I have lately learned that no matter what the consequences, a priest would never divulge my secrets.”

Holmes held out his hand. “It is over, Father. Where is the codex?”

Father Twitchell sprang from behind his desk and charged across the room, shoving Watson on his way.

“Holmes!” the doctor cried. “He’s running into the fire!”

“Quick, Watson! Follow me!” said Holmes, running to the hearth. He leapt over the great blazing log and then whirled about. To his left was a narrow opening in the blocks, barely more than a foot wide, and perfectly hidden from view by the newer bricks.

“Hurry,” cried Watson, now at his friend’s side, “this heat is unbearable!”

Holmes quickly squeezed sideways through the opening, followed by the doctor. They found themselves in a narrow passageway, with the sound of footsteps echoing in the blackness ahead of them.

Watson groped for a match as he and Holmes felt their way down the passage. “The footsteps are fading — he is getting away!”

“I doubt that.”

The two men stumbled upon a wider chamber. They could feel a strong current of cool air blowing past them in the darkness. Watson struck a match, illuminating a large circular room. There were other passageways leading off the chamber, and narrow stone steps that wound up the center of the tower into the shadows above. “Which way did he—?”

“Quiet,” whispered Holmes.

From the gloom above their heads several bits of crumbling mortar suddenly rained down, cascading on the lowest steps. Holmes raced up the stairs with Watson close behind. When he reached the top of the tower, he found the priest standing at the edge of the parapet, clutching the codex and staring down at the street.

“Father Twitchell,” Holmes called gently, “please come away from the edge.”

The priest spun about to face him. “It is too late,” he sobbed. “The things I have done…. I can never forgive myself!” He took a step backward, the codex held tightly to his breast, and plummeted into the darkness below.

The sidewalk and cobbles of Baker Street were littered with shattered glass. Watson could hear it crunching beneath his feet when he stepped down from the carriage. He looked up at the open windows of Holmes’ sitting room, briefly wondering what new eccentricity awaited him, and then hurried up to see his old friend.

Watson immediately felt the breeze upon his face when he opened the door. He strode across the room, past Holmes who was gazing sullenly into the fire, and stood before the two windows overlooking the street. There was no glass or mullions left in the frames. The doctor sighed deeply. “There is a decided draft in this room, Holmes. What on earth have you been up to?”

Mrs. Hudson tapped at the door and then ushered in three monks.

“The thing you seek is upon the table,” Holmes said without rising.

Brother Eduardo hugged the book. “We are greatly indebted to you, Mr. Holmes.”

“What a pity,” said Brother Paolo, “that in offering absolution to a damned soul, Father Twitchell should lose his own.”

“What do you mean?” asked Holmes.

“He committed suicide,” said Brother Eduardo, “for which there is no forgiveness.”

“And why is that?”

“Only God has authority in matters of life and death,” said Brother Eugenio. “In taking his own life, Father Twitchell usurped that authority. He will burn in hell.”

“I believe you are wrong,” said Holmes. “Your faith is founded upon the belief that in a supreme act of benevolence, God sent His only son to take upon His shoulders the sins of the world, but after His son died for those sins, He was received back to His father.

“Gentlemen,” Holmes continued, “how can you believe anything less in the case of a priest who, led by love, took upon his shoulders the sins of the book, and ultimately died for those sins? Father Twitchell’s suicide was an act of sacrifice. If there is a heaven, I believe you will find him there … waiting for you.”

Holmes motioned to the door. “But these are theological matters, of which I am out of my depth.”

“Perhaps not, Mr. Holmes,” said Brother Eduardo, departing.

“Holmes, is it wise to leave so much power in their hands?” Watson asked after the men had left.

“Most of the pages in the codex were blank once again, the parchment having long ago reverted to its original state: clean and blameless. What does it say in Isaiah? ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.’ I assure you, those leaves were as white as snow. Except for one last section of manuscript, which I sliced out of the binding while slightly averting my eyes, lest I should inadvertently read some of that hellish text. The pages I removed contained the last remaining words of malediction. I took the liberty of burning them shortly before you arrived. It is doubtful the Brotherhood will hazard too close an inspection of that volume; but if they should, they will not notice its thickness diminished by a mere few leaves.”

Holmes turned back to the fireplace. “And I cannot imagine the codex will mind. For it is better to lose a few pages than to lose one’s soul.”

Watson took the chair next to Holmes. “For a man who has just solved an extremely unusual case, you seem rather down. You must not hold yourself responsible for the death of the priest.”

“When Father Twitchell hurled himself from the tower, I plunged with him … into the depths of despair.”

“But why, Holmes?”

“You were planning to ask me how the windows were shattered. No,” Holmes smirked, “it was not one of my little experiments taken flight. When I burned that remaining evil signature an astonishing phenomenon occurred.” He closed the collar of his dressing gown and hugged himself. “A black plume billowed from the fireplace. It was not smoke, but rather something more solid, something slick and oily in appearance. It behaved like a giant snake. I now wonder if it was not similar to the material referred to among spiritualists as ectoplasm.”

“That’s incredible!”

“Yes, but I have had the misfortune of seeing it.”

Holmes walked to one of the shattered windows. Below him, Baker Street clattered and hummed with the activities of London life; a confusion of men and women, carriages and horses, all bustling to and fro across the soot-grey cobbles. “The damned thing bifurcated before exiting through these closed windows.”

“You’ve grown pale,” said Watson.

“I have a strong constitution, but I admit the sight of it has unnerved me.”

“You have clearly had a shocking experience. Come and sit down. I will ask Mrs. Hudson to bring up some breakfast.”

“Not just yet. There is something I wish to say first.”

Holmes went back to the fireplace and dropped into his armchair. “A significant part of me plunged with that accursed tome … and was dashed against the pavement below: a bit of my philosophy, perhaps; certainly my spirits. Remember the horrible depression through which I suffered in the Spring of ‘87?”

“We came through it.”

“I feel there are even blacker depths waiting to engulf me now. Which is why I am going away.”

“Going away, Holmes?”

“These last few days I have witnessed many strange things — otherworldly phenomena which I cannot explain.” He shuddered. “I have come to realize there is a significant tear in my logic. I must set myself to mending this tear before the entire fabric of my reason is rent asunder. To accomplish this I need time to think. I need a change of scenery; as cozy and as safe as they are, I feel the need to temporarily escape the confines of these rooms.”

“But where will you go?”

“The Continent,” said Holmes, gazing at the mezzotint hanging above the mantel: a reproduction of the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland. He seemed to lapse into deep thought.

“Perhaps Tibet,” he said at length, “to visit the Dalai Lama.”

“But what of your work?”

“I have always felt it my duty to use my unusual talents for the public good, and in all the years you have known me, and before then, I have never forsaken that responsibility. But now…” He shrugged. “I am in need of a very long holiday.”

“And what of all the people who have come to rely upon you? What will I tell them when they come calling and learn that their champion has disappeared, leaving them with no one to whom they can turn? That you are on holiday? Sightseeing? They will never understand.”

“Tell them whatever you wish.” Holmes grunted. “Tell them I am dead, for all I care.”

“I am not very good at fabricating lies!”

“Come now, Watson!” laughed Holmes. “You underestimate your abilities as a fabulist. You have yet to chronicle a single case of mine where you have not played fast and loose with the facts.”

The following day, after leaving Victoria Station where he had seen Holmes off to the Continent, Watson returned to Baker Street to contemplate those empty rooms. Later, while a glazier set about repairing the shattered windows, Watson sat at his friend’s desk and started writing what he felt might very well be the last story in which he would ever record the singular gifts that had distinguished the best and wisest man he had ever known.

* * * * *

TOM ENGLISH is an environmental chemist for a US defense contractor. As therapy he runs Dead Letter Press and writes curious tales of the supernatural. His recent fiction can be found in the anthology Dead Souls (edited by Mark Deniz for Morrigan Books) and issues of All Hallows (The Journal of the Ghost Story Society). He also edited Bound for Evil, a 2008 Shirley Jackson Award finalist for Best Anthology, featuring stories about strange, often deadly books. Tom resides with his wife, Wilma, and their Sheltie, Misty, deep in the woods of New Kent, Virginia.