Shadows over Baker Street

The Adventure of the Voorish Sign

RICHARD A. LUPOFF

It was by far the most severe winter London had known in human memory, perhaps since the Romans had founded their settlement of Londinium nearly two millennia ago. Storms had swept down from the North Sea, cutting off the Continent and blanketing the great metropolis with thick layers of snow that were quickly blackened by the choking fumes of ten thousand charcoal braziers, turning to a treacherous coating of ice when doused with only slightly warmer peltings of sleet.

Even so, Holmes and I were snug in our quarters at 221B Baker Street. The fire had been laid, we had consumed a splendid dinner of meat pasties and red cabbage served by the ever-reliable Mrs. Hudson, and I found myself dreaming over an aged brandy and a pipe while Holmes devoted himself to his newest passion.

He had raided our slim exchequer for sufficient funds to purchase one of Mr. Emile Berliner’s new gramophones, imported by Harrods of Brompton Road. He had placed one of Mr. Berliner’s new disk recordings on the machine, advertised as a marked improvement over the traditional wax cylinders. But the sounds that emerged from the horn were neither pleasant nor tuneful to my ears. Instead they were of a weird and disquieting nature, seemingly discordant yet suggestive of strange harmonies which it would be better not to understand.

As I was about to ask Holmes to shut off the contraption, the melody came to an end and Holmes removed the needle from its groove.

Holmes pressed an upraised finger against his thin lips and sharply uttered my name. “Watson!” he repeated as I lowered my pipe. The brandy snifter had very nearly slipped from my grasp, but I was able to catch it in time to prevent a disastrous spill.

“What is it, Holmes?” I inquired.

“Listen!”

He held one hand aloft, an expression of intense concentration upon his saturnine features. He nodded toward the shuttered windows which gave out upon Baker Street.

“I hear nothing except the whistle of the wind against the eaves,” I told him.

“Listen more closely.”

I tilted my head, straining to hear whatever it was that had caught Holmes’s attention. There was a creak from below, followed by the sound of a door opening and closing, and a rapping of knuckles against solid wood, the latter sound muffled as by thin cloth.

I looked at Holmes, who pressed a long finger against his lips, indicating that silence was required. He nodded toward our door, and in a few moments I heard the tread of Mrs. Hudson ascending to our lodging. Her sturdy pace was accompanied by another, light and tentative in nature.

Holmes drew back our front door to reveal our landlady, her hand raised to knock. “Mr. Holmes!” she gasped.

“Mrs. Hudson, I see that you have brought with you Lady Fairclough of Pontefract. Will you be so kind as to permit Lady Fairclough to enter, and would you be so good as to brew a hot cup of tea for my lady. She must be suffering from her trip through this wintry night.”

Mrs. Hudson turned away and made her way down the staircase while the slim young woman who had accompanied her entered our sitting room with a series of long, graceful strides. Behind her, Mrs. Hudson had carefully placed a carpetbag valise upon the floor.

“Lady Fairclough.” Holmes addressed the newcomer. “May I introduce my associate, Dr. Watson. Of course you know who I am, which is why you have come to seek my assistance. But first, please warm yourself by the fire. Dr. Watson will fetch a bottle of brandy with which we will fortify the hot tea that Mrs. Hudson is preparing.”

The newcomer had not said a word, but her face gave proof of her astonishment that Holmes had known her identity and home without being told. She wore a stylish hat trimmed in dark fur and a carefully tailored coat with matching decorations at collar and cuffs. Her feet were covered in boots that disappeared beneath the lower hem of her coat.

I helped her off with her outer garment. By the time I had placed it in our closet, Lady Fairclough was comfortably settled in our best chair, holding slim hands toward the cheerily dancing flames. She had removed her gloves and laid them with seemingly careless precision across the wooden arm of her chair.

“Mr. Holmes,” she said in a voice that spoke equally of cultured sensitivity and barely repressed terror, “I apologize for disturbing you and Dr. Watson at this late hour, but—”

“There is no need for apologies, Lady Fairclough. On the contrary, you are to be commended for having the courage to cross the Atlantic in the midst of winter, and the captain of the steamship Murania is to be congratulated for having negotiated the crossing successfully. It is unfortunate that our customs agents delayed your disembarkation as they did, but now that you are here, perhaps you will enlighten Dr. Watson and myself as to the problem which has beset your brother, Mr. Philip Llewellyn.”

If Lady Fairclough had been startled by Holmes’s recognizing her without introduction, she was clearly amazed beyond my meager powers of description by this statement. She raised a hand to her cheek, which showed a smoothness of complexion and grace of curve in the flattering glow of the dancing flames. “Mr. Holmes,” she exclaimed, “how did you know all that?”

“It was nothing, Lady Fairclough, one need merely keep one’s senses on the alert and one’s mind active.” A glance that Holmes darted in my direction was not welcome, but I felt constrained from protesting in the presence of a guest and potential client.

“So you say, Mr. Holmes, but I have read of your exploits and in many cases they seem little short of supernatural,” Lady Fairclough replied.

“Not in the least. Let us consider the present case. Your valise bears the paper label of the Blue Star Line. The Murania and the Lemuria are the premiere ocean liners of the Blue Star Line, alternating upon the easterly and westerly transatlantic sea-lanes. Even a fleeting glance at the daily shipping news indicates that the Murania was due in Liverpool early this morning. If the ship made port at even so late an hour as ten o’clock, in view of the fact that the rail journey from Liverpool to London requires a mere two hours, you should have reached our city by noon. Another hour at most from the rail terminus to Baker Street would have brought you to our door by one o’clock this afternoon. And yet,” concluded Holmes, glancing at the ormolu clock that rested upon our mantel, “you arrive at the surprising hour of ten o’clock post meridian.”

“But, Holmes,” I interjected, “Lady Fairclough may have had other errands to perform before coming to us.”

“No, Watson, no. I fear that you have failed to draw the proper inference from that which you have surely observed. You did note, did you not, that Lady Fairclough has brought her carpetbag with her?”

I pled guilty to the charge.

“Surely, had she not been acting in great haste, Lady Fairclough would have gone to her hotel, refreshed herself, and left her luggage in her quarters there before traveling to Baker Street. The fact that she has but one piece of luggage with her gives further testimony to the urgency with which she departed her home in Canada. Now, Watson, what could have caused Lady Fairclough to commence her trip in such haste?”

I shook my head. “I confess that I am at a loss.”

“It was but eight days ago that the Daily Mail carried a dispatch marked Marthyr Tydhl, a town situated on the border of England and Wales, concerning the mysterious disappearance of Mr. Philip Llewellyn. There would have been time for word to reach Lady Fairclough in Pontefract by transatlantic cable. Fearing that delay in traveling to the port and boarding the Murania would cause intolerable delay, Lady Fairclough had her maid pack the fewest possible necessities in her carpetbag. She then made her way to Halifax, whence the Murania departed, and upon reaching Liverpool this morning would have made her way at once to London. Yet she arrived some nine hours later than she might have been expected to do. Since our rail service remains uninterrupted in even the most severe of climatic conditions, it can only have been the customs service, equally notorious for their punctilio and their dilatory conduct, which could be responsible.”

Turning once more to Lady Fairclough, Holmes said, “In behalf of Her Majesty’s Customs Service, Lady Fairclough, I tender my apologies.”

There was a knock at the door and Mrs. Hudson appeared, bearing a tray with hot tea and cold sandwiches. This she placed upon the table, then took her leave.

Lady Fairclough looked at the repast and said, “Oh, I simply could not.”

“Nonsense,” Holmes insisted. “You have completed an arduous journey and face a dangerous undertaking. You must keep up your strength.” He rose and added brandy to Lady Fairclough’s tea, then stood commandingly over her while she consumed the beverage and two sandwiches.

“I suppose I was hungry after all,” she admitted at last. I was pleased to see some color returning to her cheeks. I had been seriously concerned about her well-being.

“Now, Lady Fairclough,” said Holmes, “it might be well for you to go to your hotel and restore your strength with a good night’s slumber. You do have a reservation, I trust.”

“Oh, of course, at Claridge’s. A suite was ordered for me through the courtesy of the Blue Star Line, but I could not rest now, Mr. Holmes. I am far too distraught to sleep until I have explained my need to you, and received your assurance that you and Dr. Watson will take my case. I have plenty of money, if that is a concern.”

Holmes indicated that financial details could wait, but I was pleased to be included in our guest’s expression of need. So often I find myself taken for granted, while in fact I am Holmes’s trusted associate, as he has himself acknowledged on many occasions.

“Very well.” Holmes nodded, seating himself opposite Lady Fairclough. “Please tell me your story in your own words, being as precise with details as possible.”

Lady Fairclough drained her cup and waited while Holmes filled it once again with brandy and a spot of Darjeeling. She downed another substantial draft, then launched upon her narrative.

“As you know, Mr. Holmes—and Dr. Watson—I was born in England of old stock. Despite our ancient Welsh connections and family name, we have been English for a thousand years. I was the elder of two children, the younger being my brother, Philip. As a daughter, I saw little future for myself in the home islands, and accepted the proposal of marriage tendered by my husband, Lord Fairclough, whose Canadian holdings are substantial and who indicated to me a desire to emigrate to Canada and build a new life there, which we would share.”

I had taken out my notebook and fountain pen and begun jotting notes.

“At about this time my parents were both killed in a horrendous accident, the collision of two trains in the Swiss Alps while vacationing abroad. Feeling that an elaborate wedding would be disrespectful of the deceased, Lord Fairclough and I were quietly married and took our leave of England. We lived happily in Pontefract, Canada, until my husband disappeared.”

“Indeed,” Holmes interjected, “I had read of Lord Fairclough’s disappearance. I note that you refer to him as your husband rather than your late husband still, nor do I see any mourning band upon your garment. Is it your belief that your husband lives still?”

Lady Fairclough lowered her eyes for a moment as a flush rose to her cheeks. “Although ours was somewhat a marriage of convenience, I find that I have come to love my husband most dearly. There was no discord between us, if you are concerned over such, Mr. Holmes.”

“Not in the least, Lady Fairclough.”

“Thank you.” She sipped from her teacup. Holmes peered at it, then refreshed its contents once again. “Thank you,” Lady Fairclough repeated. “My husband had been corresponding with his brother-in-law, my brother, and later, after my brother’s marriage, with my brother’s wife, for some time before he disappeared. I saw the envelopes as they came and went, but I was never permitted to so much as lay eyes on their contents. After reading each newly delivered letter, my husband would burn it and crush the ashes beyond recovery. After receiving one very lengthy letter—I could tell it was lengthy by the heft of the envelope in which it arrived—my husband summoned carpenters and prepared a sealed room which I was forbidden to enter. Of course I obeyed my husband’s command.”

“A wise policy,” I put in. “One knows the story of Bluebeard.”

“He would lock himself in his private chamber for hours at a time, sometimes days. When he disappeared, in fact, I half expected him to return at any moment.” Lady Fairclough put her hand to her throat. “Please,” she said softly, “I beg your pardon for the impropriety, but I feel suddenly so warm.” I glanced away, and when I looked back at her I observed that the top button of her blouse had been undone.

“My husband has been gone now for two years, and all have given him up for dead save myself, and I will concede that even my hopes are of the faintest. During the period of correspondence between my husband and my brother, my husband began to absent himself from all human society from time to time. Gradually the frequency and duration of his disappearances increased. I feared I knew not what—perhaps that he had become addicted to some drug or unspeakable vice for the indulging of which he preferred isolation. I inferred that he had caused the construction of the sealed room for this purpose, and determined that I should learn its secret.”

She bowed her head and drew a series of long, sobbing breaths, which caused her graceful bosom visibly to heave. After a time she raised her face. Her cheeks were wet with tears. She resumed her narrative.

“I summoned a locksmith from the village and persuaded him to aid me in gaining entry. When I stood at last in my husband’s secret chamber I found myself confronting a room completely devoid of feature. The ceiling, the walls, the floor were all plain and devoid of ornament. There were neither windows nor fireplace, nor any other means of egress from the room.”

Holmes nodded, frowning. “There was nothing noteworthy about the room, then?” he asked at length.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, there was.” Lady Fairclough’s response startled me so, I nearly dropped my fountain pen, but I recovered and returned to my note taking.

“At first the room seemed a perfect cube. The ceiling, floor, and four walls each appeared absolutely square and mounted at a precise right angle to one another. But as I stood there, they seemed to—I suppose, shift is the closest I can come to it, Mr. Holmes, but they did not actually move in any familiar manner. And yet their shape seemed to be different, and the angles to become peculiar, obtuse, and to open onto other—how to put this?—dimensions.”

She seized Holmes’s wrist in her graceful fingers and leaned toward him pleadingly. “Do you think I am insane, Mr. Holmes? Has my grief driven me to the brink of madness? There are times when I think I can bear no more strangeness.”

“You are assuredly not insane,” Holmes told her. “You have stumbled upon one of the strangest and most dangerous of phenomena, a phenomenon barely suspected by even the most advanced of mathematical theoreticians and spoken of even by them in only the most cautious of whispers.”

He withdrew his arm from her grasp, shook his head, and said, “If your strength permits, you must continue your story, please.”

“I will try,” she answered.

I waited, fountain pen poised above notebook.

Our visitor shuddered as with a fearsome recollection. “Once I had left the secret room, sealing it behind myself, I attempted to resume a normal life. It was days later that my husband reappeared, refusing as usual to give any explanation of his recent whereabouts. Shortly after this a dear friend of mine living in Quebec gave birth to a child. I had gone to be with her when word was received of the great Pontefract earthquake. In this disaster a fissure appeared in the earth and our house was completely swallowed. I was, fortunately, left in a state of financial independence, and have never suffered from material deprivation. But I have never again seen my husband. Most believe that he was in the house at the time of its disappearance, and was killed at once, but I retain a hope, however faint, that he may somehow have survived.”

She paused to compose herself, then resumed.

“But I fear I am getting ahead of myself. It was shortly before my husband ordered the construction of his sealed room that my brother, Philip, announced his engagement and the date of his impending nuptials. I thought the shortness of his intended period of engagement was unseemly, but in view of my own marriage and departure to Canada so soon after my parents’ death, I was in no position to condemn Philip. My husband and I booked passage to England, on the Lemuria in fact, and from Liverpool made our way to the family lands in Marthyr Tydhl.”

She shook her head as if to free it of an unpleasant memory.

“Upon arriving at Anthracite Palace, I was shocked by my brother’s appearance.”

At this point I interrupted our guest with a query.

“Anthracite Palace? Is that not an unusual name for a family manse?”

“Our family residence was so named by my ancestor, Sir Llewys Llewellyn, who built the family fortune, and the manor, by operating a network of successful coal mines. As you are probably aware, the region is rich in anthracite. The Llewellyns pioneered modern mining methods which rely upon gelignite explosives to loosen banks of coal for the miners to remove from their native sites. In the region of Marthyr Tydhl, where the Anthracite Palace is located, the booming of gelignite charges is heard to this day, and stores of the explosive are kept at the mine heads.”

I thanked her for the clarification and suggested that she continue with her narrative.

“My brother was neatly barbered and clothed, but his hands shook, his cheeks were sunken, and his eyes had a frightened, hunted look to them,” she said. “When I toured my childhood home I was shocked to find its interior architecture modified. There was now a sealed room, just as there had been at Pontefract. I was not permitted to enter that room. I expressed my concern at my brother’s appearance but he insisted he was well and introduced his fiancée, who was already living at the palace.”

I drew my breath with a gasp.

“Yes, Doctor,” Lady Fairclough responded, “you heard me correctly. She was a woman of dark, Gypsyish complexion, glossy sable hair, and darting eyes. I disliked her at once. She gave her own name, not waiting for Philip to introduce her properly. Her maiden name, she announced, was Anastasia Romelly. She claimed to be of noble Hungarian blood, allied both to the Habsburgs and the Romanovs.”

“Humph,” I grunted, “Eastern European nobility is a ha’penny a dozen, and three-quarters of them aren’t real even at that.”

“Perhaps true,” Holmes snapped at me, “but we do not know that the credentials of the lady involved were other than authentic.” He frowned and turned away. “Lady Fairclough, please continue.”

“She insisted on wearing her native costume. And she had persuaded my brother to replace his chef with one of her own choosing, whom she had imported from her homeland and who replaced our usual menu of good English fare with unfamiliar dishes reeking of odd spices and unknown ingredients. She imported strange wines and ordered them served with meals.”

I shook my head in disbelief.

“The final straw came upon the day of her wedding to my brother. She insisted upon being given away by a surly, dark man who appeared for the occasion, performed his duty, and then disappeared. She—”

“A moment, please,” Holmes interrupted. “If you will forgive me—you say that this man disappeared. Do you mean that he took his leave prematurely?”

“No, I do not mean that at all.” Lady Fairclough was clearly excited. A moment earlier she had seemed on the verge of tears. Now she was angry and eager to unburden herself of her tale.

“In a touching moment, he placed the bride’s hand upon that of the groom. Then he raised his own hand. I thought his intent was to place his benediction upon the couple, but such was not the case. He made a gesture with his hand, as if making a mystical sign.”

She raised her own hand from her lap, but Holmes snapped, “Do not, I warn you, attempt to replicate the gesture! Please, if you can, simply describe it to Dr. Watson and myself.”

“I could not replicate the gesture if I tried,” Lady Fairclough said. “It defies imitation. I cannot even describe it accurately, I fear. I was fascinated and tried to follow the movement of the dark man’s fingers, but I could not. They seemed to disappear and reappear most shockingly, and then, without further warning, he was simply gone. I tell you, Mr. Holmes, one moment the dark man was there, and then he was gone.”

“Did no one else take note of this, my lady?”

“No one did, apparently. Perhaps all eyes were trained upon the bride and groom, although I believe I did notice the presiding official exchanging several glances with the dark man. Of course, that was before his disappearance.”

Holmes stroked his jaw, deep in thought. There was a lengthy silence in the room, broken only by the ticking of the ormolu clock and whistling of the wind through the eaves. Finally Holmes spoke.

“It can be nothing other than the Voorish Sign,” he said.

“The Voorish Sign?” Lady Fairclough repeated inquiringly.

Holmes said, “Never mind. This becomes more interesting by the moment, and also more dangerous. Another question, if you please. Who was the presiding official at the wedding? He was, I would assume, a priest of the Church of England.”

“No.” Lady Fairclough shook her head once again. “The official was neither a member of the Anglican clergy nor a he. The wedding was performed by a woman.”

I gasped in surprise, drawing still another sharp glance from Holmes.

“She wore robes such as I have never seen,” our guest resumed. “There were symbols, both astronomical and astrological, embroidered in silver thread and gold, green, blue, and red. There were other symbols totally unfamiliar to me, suggestive of strange geometries and odd shapes. The ceremony itself was conducted in a language I had never before heard, and I am something of a linguist, Mr. Holmes. I believe I detected a few words of Old Temple Egyptian, a phrase in Coptic Greek, and several suggestions of Sanskrit. Other words I did not recognize at all.”

Holmes nodded. I could see the excitement growing in his eyes, the excitement that I saw only when a fascinating challenge was presented to him.

He asked, “What was this person’s name?”

“Her name,” Lady Fairclough voiced through teeth clenched in anger, or perhaps in the effort to prevent their chattering with fear, “was Vladimira Petrovna Ludmilla Romanova. She claimed the title of Archbishop of the Wisdom Temple of the Dark Heavens.”

“Why—why,” I exclaimed, “I’ve never heard of such a thing! This is sheer blasphemy!”

“It is something far worse than blasphemy, Watson.” Holmes leaped to his feet and paced rapidly back and forth. At one point he halted near our front window, being careful not to expose himself to the direct sight of anyone lurking below. He peered down into Baker Street, something I have seen him do many times in our years together. Then he did something I had not seen before. Drawing himself back still farther, he gazed upward. What he hoped to perceive in the darkened winter sky other than falling snowflakes, I could hardly imagine.

“Lady Fairclough,” he intoned at length, “you have been remarkably strong and courageous in your performance here this night. I will now ask Dr. Watson to see you to your hotel. You mentioned Claridge’s, I believe. I will ask Dr. Watson to remain in your suite throughout the remainder of the night. I assure you, Lady Fairclough, that he is a person of impeccable character, and your virtue will in no way be compromised by his presence.”

“Even so, Holmes,” I objected, “the lady’s virtue is one thing, her reputation is another.”

The matter was resolved by Lady Fairclough herself. “Doctor, while I appreciate your concern, we are dealing with a most serious matter. I will accept the suspicious glances of prudes and the smirks of servants if I must. The lives of my husband and my brother are at stake.”

Unable to resist the lady’s argument, I followed Holmes’s directions and accompanied her to Claridge’s. At his insistence I even went so far as to arm myself with a large revolver, which I tucked into the top of my woolen trousers. Holmes warned me, also, to permit no one save himself entry to Lady Fairclough’s suite.

Once my temporary charge had retired, I sat in a straight chair, prepared to pass the night in a game of solitaire. Lady Fairclough had donned camisole and hair net and climbed into her bed. I will admit that my cheeks burned, but I reminded myself that in my medical capacity I was accustomed to viewing patients in a disrobed condition, and could surely assume an avuncular role while keeping watch over this courageous lady.

There was a loud rapping at the door. I jerked awake, realizing to my chagrin that I had fallen asleep over my solitary card game. I rose to my feet, went to Lady Fairclough’s bedside and assured myself that she was unharmed, and then placed myself at the door to her suite. In response to my demand that our visitor identify himself, a male voice announced simply, “Room service, guv’ner.”

My hand was on the doorknob, my other hand on the latch, when I remembered Holmes’s warning at Baker Street to permit no one entry. Surely a hearty breakfast would be welcome; I could almost taste the kippers and the toast and jam that Mrs. Hudson would have served us, had we been still in our home. But Holmes had been emphatic. What to do? What to do?

“We did not order breakfast.” I spoke through the heavy oaken door.

“Courtesy of the management, guv.”

Perhaps, I thought, I might admit a waiter bearing food. What harm could there be in that? I reached for the latch only to find my hand tugged away by another, that of Lady Fairclough. She had climbed from her bed and crossed the room, barefoot and clad only in her sleeping garment. She shook her head vigorously, drawing me away from the door, which remained latched against any entry. She pointed to me, pantomiming speech. Her message was clear.

“Leave our breakfast in the hall,” I instructed the waiter. “We shall fetch it in ourselves shortly. We are not ready as yet.”

“Can’t do it, sir,” the waiter insisted. “Please, sir, don’t get me in trouble wif the management, guv’ner. I needs to roll my cart into your room and leave the tray. I’ll get in trouble if I don’t, guv’ner.”

I was nearly persuaded by his plea, but Lady Fairclough had placed herself between me and the door, her arms crossed and a determined expression on her face. Once again she indicated that I should send the waiter away.

“I’m sorry, my man, but I must insist. Simply leave the tray outside our door. That is my final word.”

The waiter said nothing more, but I thought I could hear his reluctantly retreating footsteps.

I retired to make my morning ablutions while Lady Fairclough dressed.

Shortly thereafter, there was another rapping at the door. Fearing the worst, I drew my revolver. Perhaps this was more than a misdirected order for room service. “I told you to go away,” I commanded.

“Watson, old man, open up. It is I, Holmes.”

The voice was unmistakable; I felt as though a weight of a hundred stone had been lifted from my shoulders. I undid the door latch and stood aside as the best and wisest man I have ever known entered the apartment. I peered out into the hall after he had passed through the doorway. There was no sign of a service cart or breakfast tray.

Holmes asked, “What are you looking for, Watson?”

I explained the incident of the room-service call.

“You did well, Watson,” he congratulated me. “You may be certain that was no waiter, nor was his mission one of service to Lady Fairclough and yourself. I have spent the night consulting my files and certain other sources with regard to the odd institution known as the Wisdom Temple of the Dark Heavens, and I can tell you that we are sailing dangerous waters indeed.”

He turned to Lady Fairclough. “You will please accompany Dr. Watson and myself to Marthyr Tydhl. We shall leave at once. There is a chance that we may yet save the life of your brother, but we have no time to waste.”

Without hesitation, Lady Fairclough strode to the wardrobe, pinned her hat to her hair, and donned the same warm coat she had worn when first I laid eyes on her, mere hours before.

“But, Holmes,” I protested, “Lady Fairclough and I have not broken our fast.”

“Never mind your stomach, Watson. There is no time to lose. We can purchase sandwiches from a vendor at the station.”

Almost sooner than I can tell, we were seated in a first-class compartment heading westward toward Wales. As good as his word, Holmes had seen to it that we were nourished, and I for one felt the better for having downed even a light and informal meal.

The storm had at last abated and a bright sun shone down from a sky of the most brilliant blue upon fields and hillsides covered with a spotless layer of purest white. Hardly could one doubt the benevolence of the universe; I felt almost like a schoolboy setting off on holiday, but Lady Fairclough’s fears and Holmes’s serious demeanor brought my soaring spirits back to earth.

“It is as I feared, Lady Fairclough,” Holmes explained. “Both your brother and your husband have been ensnared in a wicked cult that threatens civilization itself if it is not stopped.”

“A cult?” Lady Fairclough echoed.

“Indeed. You told me that Bishop Romanova was a representative of the Wisdom Temple of the Dark Heavens, did you not?”

“She so identified herself, Mr. Holmes.”

“Yes. Nor would she have reason to lie, not that any denizen of this foul nest would hesitate to do so, should it aid their schemes. The Wisdom Temple is a little-known organization—I would hesitate to dignify them with the title religion—of ancient origins. They have maintained a secretive stance while awaiting some cosmic cataclysm which I fear is nearly upon us.”

“Cosmic—cosmic cataclysm? I say, Holmes, isn’t that a trifle melodramatic?” I asked.

“Indeed it is, Watson. But it is nonetheless so. They refer to a coming time ‘when the stars are right.’ Once that moment arrives, they intend to perform an unholy rite that will ‘open the portal,’ whatever that means, to admit their masters to the earth. The members of the Wisdom Temple will then become overseers and oppressors of all humankind, in the service of the dread masters whom they will have admitted to our world.”

I shook my head in disbelief. Outside the windows of our compartment I could see that our train was approaching the trestle that would carry us across the River Severn. It would not be much longer before we should detrain at Marthyr Tydhl.

“Holmes,” I said, “I would never doubt your word.”

“I know that, old man,” he replied. “But something is bothering you. Out with it!”

“Holmes, this is madness. Dread masters, opening portals, unholy rites—this is something out of the pages of a penny dreadful. Surely you don’t expect Lady Fairclough and myself to believe all this.”

“But I do, Watson. You must believe it, for it is all true, and deadly serious. Lady Fairclough—you have set out to save your brother and if possible your husband, but in fact you have set us in play in a game whose stakes are not one or two mere individuals, but the fate of our planet.”

Lady Fairclough pulled a handkerchief from her wrist and dabbed at her eyes. “Mr. Holmes, I have seen that strange room at Llewellyn Hall at Pontefract, and I can believe your every word, for all that I agree with Dr. Watson as to the fantastic nature of what you say. Might I ask how you know of this?”

“Very well,” Holmes assented, “You are entitled to that information. I told you before we left Claridge’s that I had spent the night in research. There are many books in my library, most of which are open to my associate, Dr. Watson, and to other men of goodwill, as surely he is. But there are others which I keep under lock and key.”

“I am aware of that, Holmes,” I interjected, “and I will admit that I have been hurt by your unwillingness to share those volumes with me. Often have I wondered what they contain.”

“Good Watson, it was for your own protection, I assure you. Watson, Lady Fairclough, those books include De los Mundos Amenazantes y Sombriosos of Carlos Alfredo de Torrijos, Emmorragia Sante of Luigi Humberto Rosso, and Das Bestrafen von der Tugendhaft of Heinrich Ludvig Georg von Feldenstein, as well as the works of the brilliant Mr. Arthur Machen, of whom you may have heard. These tomes, some of them well over a thousand years old and citing still more remote sources whose origins are lost in the mists of antiquity, are frighteningly consistent in their predictions. Further, several of them, Lady Fairclough, refer to a certain powerful and fearsome mystical gesture.”

Although Holmes was addressing our feminine companion, I said, “Gesture, Holmes? Mystical gesture? What nonsense is this?”

“Not nonsense at all, Watson. You are doubtless aware of the movement that our Romish brethren refer to as ‘crossing themselves.’ The Hebrews have a gesture of cabalistic origin that is alleged to bring good luck, and the Gypsies make a sign to turn away the evil eye. Several Asian races perform ‘hand dances,’ ceremonials of religious or magical significance, including the famous hoo-la known on the islands of Oahu and Maui in the Havai’ian archipelago.”

“But these are all foolish superstitions, remnants of an earlier and more credulous age. Surely there is nothing to them, Holmes!”

“I wish I could have your assuredness, Watson. You are a man of science, for which I commend you, but ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.’ Do not be too quick, Watson, to dismiss old beliefs. More often than not they have a basis in fact.”

I shook my head and turned my eyes once more to the wintry countryside through which our conveyance was passing. Holmes addressed himself to our companion.

“Lady Fairclough, you mentioned a peculiar gesture that the dark stranger made at the conclusion of your brother’s wedding ceremony.”

“I did, yes. It was so strange, I felt almost as if I were being drawn into another world when he moved his hand. I tried to follow the movements, but I could not. And then he was gone.”

Holmes nodded rapidly.

“The Voorish Sign, Lady Fairclough. The stranger was making the Voorish Sign. It is referred to in the works of Machen and others. It is a very powerful and a very evil gesture. You were fortunate that you were not drawn into that other world, fortunate indeed.”

Before much longer we reached the rail terminus nearest to Marthyr Tydhl. We left our compartment and shortly were ensconced in a creaking trap whose driver whipped up his team and headed for the Anthracite Palace. It was obvious from his demeanor that the manor was a familiar landmark in the region.

“We should be greeted by Mrs. Morrissey, our housekeeper, when we reach the manor,” Lady Fairclough said. “It was she who notified me of my brother’s straits. She is the last of our old family retainers to remain with the Llewellyns of Marthyr Tydhl. One by one the new lady of the manor has arranged their departure and replaced them with a swarthy crew of her own countrymen. Oh, Mr. Holmes, it is all so horrid!”

Holmes did his best to comfort the frightened woman.

Soon the Anthracite Palace hove into view. As its name would suggest, it was built of the local native coal. Architects and masons had carved the jet-black deposits into building blocks and created an edifice that stood like a black jewel against the white backing of snow, its battlements glittering in the wintry sunlight.

Our trap was met by a liveried servant who instructed lesser servants to carry our meager luggage into the manor. Lady Fairclough, Holmes, and I were ourselves conducted into the main hall.

The building was lit with oversized candles whose flames were so shielded as to prevent any danger of the coal walls catching fire. It struck me that the Anthracite Palace was one of the strangest architectural conceits I had ever encountered. “Not a place I would like to live in, eh, Holmes?” I was trying for a tone of levity, but must confess that I failed to achieve it.

We were left waiting for an excessive period of time, in my opinion, but at length a tall wooden door swung back and a woman of commanding presence, exotic in appearance with her swarthy complexion, flashing eyes, sable locks and shockingly reddened lips, entered the hall. She nodded to Holmes and myself and exchanged a frigid semblance of a kiss with Lady Fairclough, whom she addressed as “sister.”

Lady Fairclough demanded to see her brother, but Mrs. Llewellyn refused conversation until we were shown to our rooms and had time to refresh ourselves. We were summoned, in due course, to the dining hall. I was famished, and both relieved and my appetite further excited by the delicious odors that came to us as we were seated at the long, linen-covered table.

Only four persons were present. These were, of course, Holmes and myself, Lady Fairclough, and our hostess, Mrs. Llewellyn.

Lady Fairclough attempted once again to inquire as to the whereabouts of her brother, Philip.

Her sister-in-law replied only, “He is pursuing his devotions. We shall see him when the time comes ’round.”

Failing to learn more about her brother, Lady Fairclough asked after the housekeeper, Mrs. Morrissey.

“I have sad news, sister dear,” Mrs. Llewellyn said. “Mrs. Morrissey was taken ill very suddenly. Philip personally drove into Marthyr Tydhl to fetch a physician for her, but by the time they arrived, Mrs. Morrissey had expired. She was buried in the town cemetery. This all happened just last week. I knew that you were already en route from Canada, and it seemed best not to further distress you with this information.”

“Oh no,” Lady Fairclough gasped. “Not Mrs. Morrissey! She was like a mother to me. She was the kindest, dearest of women. She—” Lady Fairclough stopped, pressing her hand to her mouth. She inhaled deeply. “Very well, then.” I could see a look of determination rising like a banked flame deep in her eye. “If she has died there is naught to be done for it.”

There was a pillar of strength hidden within this seemingly weak female. I would not care to make an enemy of Lady Fairclough. I noted also that Mrs. Llewellyn spoke English fluently but with an accent that I found thoroughly unpleasant. It seemed to me that she, in turn, found the language distasteful. Clearly, these two were fated to clash. But the tension of the moment was broken by the arrival of our viands.

The repast was sumptuous in appearance, but every course, it seemed to me, had some flaw—an excessive use of spice, an overdone vegetable, an undercooked piece of meat or game, a fish that might have been kept a day too long before serving, a cream that had stood in a warm kitchen an hour longer than was wise. By the end of the meal my appetite had departed, but it was replaced by a sensation of queasiness and discomfort rather than satisfaction.

Servants brought cigars for Holmes and myself, an after-dinner brandy for the men, and sweet sherry for the women, but I put out my cigar after a single draft and noticed that Holmes did the same with his own. Even the beverage seemed in some subtle way to be faulty.

“Mrs. Llewellyn.” Lady Fairclough addressed her sister-in-law when at last the latter seemed unable longer to delay confrontation. “I received a telegram via transatlantic cable concerning the disappearance of my brother. He failed to greet us upon our arrival, nor has there been any sign of his presence since then. I demand to know his whereabouts.”

“Sister dear,” replied Anastasia Romelly Llewellyn, “that telegram should never have been sent. Mrs. Morrissey transmitted it from Marthyr Tydhl while in town on an errand for the palace. When I learned of her presumption I determined to send her packing, I can assure you. It was only her unfortunate demise that prevented my doing so.”

At this point my friend Holmes addressed our hostess.

“Madam, Lady Fairclough has journeyed from Canada to learn of her brother’s circumstances. She has engaged me, along with my associate, Dr. Watson, to assist her in this enterprise. It is not my desire to make this affair any more unpleasant than is necessary, but I must insist upon your providing the information that Lady Fairclough is seeking.”

I believe at this point that I observed a smirk, or at least the suggestion of one, pass across the face of Mrs. Llewellyn. But she quickly responded to Holmes’s demand, her peculiar accent as pronounced and unpleasant as ever.

“We have planned a small religious service for this evening. You are all invited to attend, of course, even though I had expected only my dear sister-in-law to do so. However, the larger group will be accommodated.”

“What is the nature of this religious service?” Lady Fairclough demanded.

Mrs. Llewellyn smiled. “It will be that of the Wisdom Temple, of course. The Wisdom Temple of the Dark Heavens. It is my hope that Bishop Romanova herself will preside, but absent her participation we can still conduct the service ourselves.”

I reached for my pocket watch. “It’s getting late, madam. Might I suggest that we get started, then!”

Mrs. Llewellyn turned her eyes upon me. In the flickering candlelight they seemed larger and darker than ever. “You do not understand, Dr. Watson. It is too early rather than too late to start our ceremony. We will proceed precisely at midnight. Until then, please feel free to enjoy the paintings and tapestries with which the Anthracite Palace is decorated, or pass the time in Mr. Llewellyn’s library. Or, if you prefer, you may of course retire to your quarters and seek sleep.”

Thus it was that we three separated temporarily, Lady Fairclough to pass some hours with her husband’s chosen books, Holmes to an examination of the palace’s art treasures, and I to bed.

I was awakened from a troubled slumber haunted by strange beings of nebulous form. Standing over my bed, shaking me by the shoulder, was my friend Sherlock Holmes. I could see a rim of snow adhering to the edges of his boots.

“Come, Watson,” said he, “the game is truly afoot, and it is by far the strangest game we are ever likely to pursue.”

Swiftly donning my attire, I accompanied Holmes as we made our way to Lady Fairclough’s chamber. She had retired there after spending the hours since dinner in her brother’s library, to refresh herself. She must have been awaiting our arrival, for she resopnded without delay to Holmes’s knock and the sound of his voice.

Before we proceeded further Holmes drew me aside. He reached inside his vest and withdrew a small object which he held concealed in his hand. I could not see its shape, for he held it inside a clenched fist, but I could tell that it emitted a dark radiance, a faint suggestion of which I could see between his fingers.

“Watson,” quoth he, “I am going to give you this. You must swear to me that you will not look at it, on pain of damage beyond anything you can so much as imagine. You must keep it upon your person, if possible in direct contact with your body, at all times. If all goes well this night, I will ask you to return it to me. If all does not go well, it may save your life.”

I held my hand toward him.

Placing the object on my outstretched palm, Holmes closed my own fingers carefully around it. Surely this was the strangest object I had ever encountered. It was unpleasantly warm, its texture like that of an overcooked egg, and it seemed to squirm as if it were alive, or perhaps as if it contained something that lived and strove to escape an imprisoning integument.

“Do not look at it,” Holmes repeated. “Keep it with you at all times. Promise me you will do these things, Watson!”

I assured him that I would do as he requested.

Momentarily we beheld Mrs. Llewellyn moving down the hallway toward us. Her stride was so smooth and her progress so steady that she seemed to be gliding rather than walking. She carried a kerosene lamp whose flame reflected from the polished blackness of the walls, casting ghostly shadows of us all.

Speaking not a word, she gestured to us, summoning us to follow her. We proceeded along a series of corridors and up and down staircases until, I warrant, I lost all sense of direction and of elevation. I could not tell whether we had climbed to a room in one of the battlements of the Anthracite Palace or descended to a dungeon beneath the Llewellyns’ ancestral home. I had placed the object Holmes had entrusted to me inside my garments. I could feel it struggling to escape, but it was bound in place and could not do so.

“Where is this bishop you promised us?” I asked of Mrs. Llewellyn.

Our hostess turned toward me. She had replaced her colorful Gypsyish attire with a robe of dark purple. Its color reminded me of the emanations of the warm object concealed now within my own clothing. Her robe was marked with embroidery of a pattern that confused the eye so that I was unable to discern its nature.

“You misunderstood me, Doctor,” she intoned in her unpleasant accent. “I stated merely that it was my hope that Bishop Romanova would preside at our service. Such is still the case. We shall see in due time.”

We stood now before a heavy door bound with rough iron bands. Mrs. Llewellyn lifted a key which hung suspended about her neck on a ribbon of crimson hue. She inserted it into the lock and turned it. She then requested Holmes and myself to apply our combined strength to opening the door. As we did so, pressing our shoulders against it, my impression was that the resistance came from some willful reluctance rather than a mere matter of weight or decay.

No light preceded us into the room, but Mrs. Llewellyn strode through the doorway carrying her kerosene lamp before her. Its rays now reflected off the walls of the chamber. The room was as Lady Fairclough had described the sealed room in her erstwhile home at Pontefract. The configuration and even the number of surfaces that surrounded us seemed unstable. I was unable even to count them. The very angles at which they met defied my every attempt to comprehend.

An altar of polished anthracite was the sole furnishing of this hideous, irrational chamber.

Mrs. Llewellyn placed her kerosene lamp upon the altar. She turned then, and indicated with a peculiar gesture of her hand that we were to kneel as if participants in a more conventional religious ceremony.

I was reluctant to comply with her silent command, but Holmes nodded to me, indicating that he wished me to do so. I lowered myself, noting that Lady Fairclough and Holmes himself emulated my act.

Before us, and facing the black altar, Mrs. Llewellyn also knelt. She raised her face as if seeking supernatural guidance from above, causing me to remember that the full name of her peculiar sect was the Wisdom Temple of the Dark Heavens. She commenced a weird chanting in a language such as I had never heard, not in all my travels. There was a suggestion of the argot of the dervishes of Afghanistan, something of the Buddhist monks of Tibet, and a hint of the remnant of the ancient Incan language still spoken by the remotest tribes of the high Choco plain of the Chilean Andes, but in fact the language was none of these and the few words that I was able to make out proved both puzzling and suggestive but never specific in their meaning.

As Mrs. Llewellyn continued her chanting, she slowly raised first one hand then the other above her head. Her fingers were moving in an intricate pattern. I tried to follow their progress but found my consciousness fading into a state of confusion. I could have sworn that her fingers twined and knotted like the tentacles of a jellyfish. Their colors, too, shifted: vermilion, scarlet, obsidian. They seemed, even, to disappear into and return from some concealed realm invisible to my fascinated eyes.

The object that Holmes had given me throbbed and squirmed against my body, its unpleasantly hot and squamous presence making me wish desperately to rid myself of it. It was only my pledge to Holmes that prevented me from doing so.

I clenched my teeth and squeezed my eyes shut, summoning up images from my youth and of my travels, holding my hand clasped over the object as I did so. Suddenly the tension was released. The object was still there, but as if it had a consciousness of its own, it seemed to grow calm. My own jaw relaxed and I opened my eyes to behold a surprising sight.

Before me there emerged another figure. As Mrs. Llewellyn was stocky and swarthy, of the model of Gypsy women, this person was tall and graceful. Swathed entirely in jet, with hair a seeming midnight blue and complexion as black as the darkest African, she defied my conventional ideas of beauty with a weird and exotic glamour of her own that defies description. Her features were as finely cut as those of the ancient Ethiopians are said to have been, her movements filled with a grace that would shame the pride of Covent Garden or the Bolshoi.

But whence had this apparition made her way? Still kneeling upon the ebon floor of the sealed room, I shook my head. She seemed to have emerged from the very angle between the walls.

She floated toward the altar, lifted the chimney from the kerosene lamp, and doused its flame with the palm of her bare hand.

Instantly the room was plunged into stygian darkness, but gradually a new light, if so I may describe it, replaced the flickering illumination of the kerosene lamp. It was a light of darkness, if you will, a glow of blackness deeper than the blackness which surrounded us, and yet by its light I could see my companions and my surroundings.

The tall woman smiled in benediction upon the four of us assembled, and gestured toward the angle between the walls. With infinite grace and seemingly glacial slowness she drifted toward the opening, through which I now perceived forms of such maddeningly chaotic configuration that I can only hint at their nature by suggesting the weird paintings that decorate the crypts of the Pharaohs, the carved stele of the mysterious Mayans, the monoliths of Mauna Loa, and the demons of Tibetan sand paintings.

The black priestess—for so I had come to think of her—led our little procession calmly into her realm of chaos and darkness. She was followed by the Gypsy-like Mrs. Llewellyn, then by Lady Fairclough, whose manner appeared as that of a woman entranced.

My own knees, I confess, have begun to stiffen with age, and I was slow to rise to my feet. Holmes followed the procession of women, while I lagged behind. As he was about to enter the opening, Holmes turned suddenly, his eyes blazing. They transmitted to me a message as clear as any words.

This message was reinforced by a single gesture. I had used my hands, pressing against the black floor as I struggled to my feet. They were now at my sides. Fingers as stiff and powerful as a bobby’s club jabbed at my waist. The object which Holmes had given me to hold for him was jolted against my flesh, where it created a weird mark which remains visible to this day.

In the moment I knew what I must do.

I wrapped my arms frantically around the black altar, watching with horrified eyes as Holmes and the others slipped from the sealed room into the realm of madness that lay beyond. I stood transfixed, gazing into the Seventh Circle of Dante’s hell, into the very heart of Gehenna.

Flames crackled, tentacles writhed, claws rasped, and fangs ripped at suffering flesh. I saw the faces of men and women I had known, monsters and criminals whose deeds surpass my poor talent to record but who are known in the lowest realms of the planet’s underworlds, screaming with glee and with agony.

There was a man whose features so resembled those of Lady Fairclough that I knew he must be her brother. Of her missing husband I know not.

Then, looming above them all, I saw a being that must be the supreme monarch of all monsters, a creature so alien as to resemble no organic thing that ever bestrode the earth, yet so familiar that I realized it was the very embodiment of the evil that lurks in the hearts of every living man.

Sherlock Holmes, the noblest human being I have ever encountered, Holmes alone dared to confront this monstrosity. He glowed in a hideous, hellish green flame, as if even great Holmes were possessed of the stains of sin, and they were being seared from within him in the face of this being.

As the monster reached for Holmes with its hideous mockery of limbs, Holmes turned and signaled to me.

I reached within my garment, removed the object that lay against my skin, pulsating with horrid life, drew back my arm, and with a murmured prayer made the strongest and most accurate throw I had made since my days on the cricket pitch of Jammu.

More quickly than it takes to describe, the object flew through the angle. It struck the monster squarely and clung to its body, extending a hideous network of webbing ’round and ’round and ’round.

The monster gave a single convulsive heave, striking Holmes and sending him flying through the air. With presence of mind such as only he, of all men I know, could claim, Holmes reached and grasped Lady Fairclough by one arm and her brother by the other. The force of the monstrous impact sent them back through the angle into the sealed room, where they crashed into me, sending us sprawling across the floor.

With a dreadful sound louder and more unexpected than the most powerful thunderclap, the angle between the walls slammed shut. The sealed room was plunged once again into darkness.

I drew a packet of lucifers from my pocket and lit one. To my surprise, Holmes reached into an inner pocket of his own and drew from it a stick of gelignite with a long fuse. He signaled to me and I handed him another lucifer. He used it to ignite the fuse of the gelignite bomb.

Striking another lucifer, I relit the kerosene lamp that Mrs. Llewellyn had left on the altar. Holmes nodded his approval, and with the great detective in the lead, the four of us—Lady Fairclough, Mr. Philip Llewellyn, Holmes himself, and I—made haste to find our way from the Anthracite Palace.

Even as we stumbled across the great hall toward the chief exit of the palace, there was a terrible rumbling that seemed to come simultaneously from the deepest basement of the building if not from the very center of the earth, and from the dark heavens above. We staggered from the palace—Holmes, Lady Fairclough, Philip Llewellyn, and I—through the howling wind and pelting snow of a renewed storm, through frigid drifts that rose higher than our boot tops, and turned about to see the great black edifice of the Anthracite Palace in flames.