Holmes hesitated. “She does not have a rich uncle?”
“She has no uncle at all! Only an aunt. Why do you ask?”
Holmes shrugged. “There was some mention of an uncle. I needn’t keep you, madame. I have two final questions. Have you ever heard of an artist named Gaston Lupin?”
“No. Never.” She had not hesitated and was obviously telling the truth.
“And did Marguerite ever have a friend named Angèle?”
“Angèle?” She laughed in earnest. “No, she would hardly be one to have a friend with such an angelic name.”
“Did she have any friend at school whom you can remember?”
“Yes, one. Her name was Anne, Anne Marie.”
“What was she like?”
“A stupid sort of girl who was putty in Marguerite’s hands, one who also came from a poorer family, and would do whatever Marguerite commanded. In short, the worst sort of friend for a girl like my daughter. She would indulge Marguerite’s worst faults—her laziness and vanity.”
“I see. One last thing, madame.” Holmes hesitated, his lips tightening as he stared down at her. “Did Marguerite ever know her father?”
She stared back at Holmes, then gave a brusque shake of her head. “Never. He left when she was one year old. We were married, monsieur.” This last was said very gravely. “He was my one grand bêtise, my one stupidity. I wanted better for my daughter. But instead it was bêtise after bêtise.” For the first time, there was almost more pain than anger in her voice.
Holmes nodded his head. “Thank you, Madame Delvaux.”
She sat up very straight in her chair, folding her arms again and assuming a very businesslike posture. “Good day, monsieur.”
We went to the door and stepped out into the street. I eased my breath out slowly. “Estrangement is an understatement.”
Holmes had set his hat back on his head. “Indeed it is. However, nothing she told us much surprised me.”
“It is sad to see a woman who so despises her own child.”
“Great love can turn to great hate, Henry. The emotional intensity stays the same, but the polarity is reversed. Come, let us be off to see Algernon. He may be an expert on black magic and sorcery, but all the same, he is a most jovial sort of person.”
* * *
Sumners’s flat was forty minutes’ walk away in the older part of the Marais. We had to trudge up a typical steep ancient circular staircase to the fourth floor. We went down the hallway, and Holmes rapped at the last door on the left. It opened inward revealing a plump man in a black soutane. His cheeks were rosy, and his graying hair was parted in the middle with a strange bob on either side, almost as if it had been deliberately curled. A golden pince-nez sat perched upon his lump of a nose, and he had a magnificent gray and black mustache and goatee which hid the fold of flesh under his jaw.
“Ah, Sherlock Holmes! We meet again at last.” He took Holmes’s slender hand between his massive fleshy ones, bobbed it eagerly up and down. Next he did the same with my hand. “And you, sir?” His voice was high-pitched with a very precise, rather excessive enunciation of every word.
“I am Dr. Henry Vernier, his cousin.”
“Pleased to meet you, Doctor. I am Algernon Sumners. As Holmes is an old acquaintance, you too may address me as Algernon. Come in and have a seat. Move the cats if you will.”
Indeed, two chairs and the sofa all had feline occupants. I lifted an enormous black cat (which given its size and weight must have been male) from one side of the burgundy velour sofa. The cat made a hoarse sort of meow of complaint. I sat down beside him and began to stroke his back. He immediately stepped up onto my lap, circled about, settled, and purred loudly. Holmes had to move an orange tabby to attain his side of the sofa. Sumners settled his bulk into a worn leather chair before a tall bookcase filled with massive tomes. Nearby was an enormous desk covered with books and papers.
“You said in your telegram you had need of my expertise, Holmes. How can I help you? By the way, do smoke if you wish.” Next to his chair was a smoldering pipe which Sumners took up and drew in upon several times; at last he released a cloud of fragrant smoke.
Holmes withdrew his cigarette case from his inside jacket pocket. “Well briefly, Algernon, what can you tell me about Satanism in Paris?”
A high clarion laugh burst from Sumners’s lips. He grasped his pince-nez by the curling metal which held its chain and let it plop onto his belly. One of the black buttons from the row on the soutane supported the chain. “Briefly? But that is a grand topic indeed, one worthy of many hours of discourse! Might I presume you are interested mainly in the contemporary situation? Good, good. That narrows the field considerably. Satanism today is alive and flourishing in this grand metropolis. The only European city which might have more devotees would be, naturally enough, Rome.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “Are you serious?”
He laughed again. “Never more so. Why do you ask?”
“Well, there have been so many technological and scientific advances in the nineteenth century. I think of Satanism as belonging more to the Middle Ages. And Rome?—Rome? Why Rome?”
“Well, Rome because it is the seat of the Church, and therefore also of its antithesis. Just as the pope acts as central authority, so there also reigns an anti-pope. In general, too, the main celebrants and many devotees of Satanism come from the ranks of the religious, from priests and nuns, and where can more be found than in Rome? That explains why London is so lacking in Satanism compared to the Roman Catholic capital cities. As for your technology and science, what has that to do with anything? Indeed, science has conclusively demonstrated that invisible and unseen forces surround us; it has confirmed a mystical realm alongside the mundane world of the senses.”
I shook my head. “So nuns and priests actually convert to Satanism?”
“It is not a matter of conversion, but of changing sides.”
“How could they choose the Devil over God?”
“Many of them fall into a form of Manichaeism, seeing God and Satan as two roughly equal powers waging eternal war across time. They take the Devil’s side and hope that he will someday be triumphant. As Satanists, they also have their own twisted rituals, symbols and ceremonies modeled after the Catholic ones, the chief of which is the so-called Black Mass.”
Holmes had crossed his legs, and his right foot began to bob. “They may speak of Satan in grandiloquent terms, but their pathetic rituals show them to be perverts and little more. They are chiefly fascinated with human excrement and sexuality.”
Sumners drew in on his pipe. “True. Much of it is posturing, wallowing gleefully in the mud, so to speak, and glorying in their delightful wickedness. Indeed, a good deal of it is harmless, mere play acting. Most of the stories about slaughtering infants to obtain blood for their blasphemous sacraments are apocryphal. I am afraid most items one can purchase from the Satanic herbalist are as false or adulterated as the Parisian foodstuffs you find in many markets. The same holds true of alchemic goods: generally they are just colored powders, not rare minerals or elements. However, that being said, not all of Satanism is harmless make-believe. Some of the adherents are genuinely evil. Others are mentally deranged, more or less insane. In either case, great harm can be done.”
I shook my head. “For God’s sake, the twentieth century is not far away—I cannot believe we are having this conversation!”
Holmes smiled sardonically. “Some things never go out of fashion.”
“And these Black Masses are actually performed today in Paris?”
“Oh yes, and they are part of a tradition going back for centuries. Many believe the Black Mass originated in France. The ceremony is an inversion and desecration of the usual Catholic Mass. A naked woman acts as ornamentation for the altar, the priest holding the chalice over her backside or front. Sometimes he sets the vessel between her legs. The crucifix involves a naked Jesus whose male sex is prominent. As for the host, that is another ma
jor topic in itself. Suffice to say common ingredients include semen, human excrement, various other ordures, and baby’s blood or flesh. After consuming the host, the participants are often overcome by a frenzy which culminates in a veritable orgy of deranged sexual acts.”
“Lord,” I murmured, “how absolutely vile.”
Holmes drew in on his cigarette, then eased out the smoke. “Definitely not an edifying spectacle. As I recall, Satanists also have a lurid fascination with incubi and succubi.”
Sumners smiled, then scratched at his goatee, losing his fingertips in its abundance. “Yet another topic worthy of lengthy discourse! They do indeed.” He noticed my puzzled look. “Incubi and succubi are demons who take, respectively, male and female forms. They have sexual intercourse with humans, often in the middle of the night. They are tempters and temptresses. There is some debate whether the same demon can assume either female or male form. There is also some debate about whether a child, half-demonic, half-human, can be engendered.”
“Now that all sounds more like fairy tales,” I said.
Holmes snubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray. “Satanists also traffic in spells, do they not?”
“Absolutely. Like the old-fashioned village sorceress, they deal in love potions, but most common are bad luck or death hexes. One can have a curse put upon one’s enemy that will cause misfortune or an untimely death. These spells also frequently involve various concoctions being brewed up. One slaughters white mice, for example, which have been fed consecrated hosts, and takes their blood. Likewise, various disgusting substances can be fed to fish, and the oil derived from them is so toxic, a drop or two will kill the victim within three days. As with the blasphemous hosts, favorite ingredients are human or animal blood, semen and excrement.”
Holmes nodded thoughtfully. “Technically that seems more a matter of a poison than of a curse.”
“A narrow line separates the two, especially since, for example, one can deliver the actual poison to the victim by means of a dead person’s spirit or by a living voyant, a person of power capable of acting at a distance. Indeed, however, the history of Satanism and witchcraft is also the history of poisons. An early scandal at the court of Louis the Fourteenth involved Satanists who were making poisons and aphrodisiacs. A few of the perpetrators were actually executed. Even the king’s favorite mistress was implicated. She also reputedly served as the nude altar piece at the Black Mass.”
I glanced at Holmes. “Do you actually suspect someone has put a hex on Mrs—?”
“Hssht.” Holmes quickly raised his forefinger to his lips. “The lady’s name must remain confidential.” He turned to Sumners, “A client of mine,” and then back to me. “That is certainly what someone wants her to think. Whether the person who wrote the note actually believes in Satanic curses is another matter.”
While I stroked the cat with one hand, my other tapped nervously on the sofa arm. “Can we at least agree that such curses are superstitious mumbo-jumbo with no basis in reality?”
Sumners smiled broadly. “Sorry, old fellow, but as a religious man, I am not willing to make such a universal dismissal. I believe in the force of the dark powers.”
I gave Holmes an inquisitive look.
“I too believe in the force of the dark powers,” he said, “powers which are not always preternatural. And I believe in the power of suggestion. The fear that one is cursed can actually make one ill and drive one to desperate measures. You can see the truth of that in primitive societies and tribes where someone sickens and dies in the belief he has been cursed.”
“Well, I for one do not believe in the Devil,” I said.
“Do you believe in God?” Sumners asked.
“I am an agnostic. I don’t know.”
Sumners laughed. “Then you should be agnostic about the Devil, too! Surely there is as much—if not more—proof that he exists than does God. After all, evil seems much more extravagant and overblown than good.”
Holmes’s sardonic smile appeared. “That is certainly true. In my profession I have seen nearly every variety of human evil imaginable.”
“But has it not generally been counteracted by good?” I asked.
He shrugged. “‘Generally’ is perhaps too strong. ‘Often’ might be true. Many of my cases have ended in ruin or death, and not always for those who most deserve it.” He turned again to Sumners. “Are there not counter spells against these curses?”
“Ah yes, white magic as opposed to black, so to speak. Often the countermeasures are religious in nature. There is an abbé in Lyons known for his abilities to reverse the most maleficent of Satanic spells. I believe he calls upon Michael, the Archangel, or some great biblical high priest. The spell can be blocked and even turned against its maker.”
Holmes nodded, even as his right hand unconsciously stroked the orange tabby curled beside him. “Are you familiar with the actual Satanic groups in Paris?”
“Yes. I have my agents, Satanic impostors who are actually practicing Catholics. They keep me informed of the various goings-on.”
“You spoke of the anti-pope earlier. Is there an anti-archbishop, an anti-cardinal, for Paris?”
“Yes, although he never had any grand rank in the church. He was only an abbé, name of Durtal. He is generally acknowledged as the most powerful Satanic master in the city.”
“But he is not the only one to perform the Black Mass.”
“No, no—although his Masses are the most grand and spectacular. His are high Masses, so to speak. On second thought, wouldn’t a high Black Mass really be a low Black Mass, since all is inverted? Regardless, Paris is full of priests of questionable virtue. It is a dumping ground for castoffs from the countryside, those accused of various sins involving ladies or altar boys, or of raiding the collection box. They are reassigned to Paris, paid a pittance, and given the dirty work upper-class priests disdain: early morning Masses in the cold church, funerals outdoors in the chill rain, visiting the poor and sick. Many of these men have already been corrupted. Satanism is the logical next step. And of course, Satanism does give license to commit the most base and disgusting sexual acts. If Catholicism idealizes chastity, Satanism idealizes lust.”
Holmes’s mouth briefly twisted upward on one side. “Always two sides to the human coin. Chastity and lust, light and dark, God and the Devil, good and evil.”
He and Sumners chatted a while longer. One topic was familiars of the Devil, generally black animals like wolves, dogs, cats, crows or ravens. The conversation made me feel strange and unsettled. This was a side of life of which I had been completely unaware.
Finally Holmes withdrew his watch from his waistcoat pocket and glanced at it. “We have taken enough of your time, Algernon.” He stood up, and I set the big black cat to one side—he protested loudly—and rose. “This has been very illuminating.”
Sumners placed his pince-nez back upon his nose, then inhaled deeply as he stood. “The pleasure was mine, Holmes. Come again anytime. You must not leave Paris without another visit.”
“I am certain I shall be consulting with you again in the near future.”
Sumners again took my hand between both of his, grasping it tightly with his right hand. “A pleasure, Dr. Vernier. I hope we have not distressed you too much. There is always the consolation of the Church, you know.”
I tried to smile politely. Holmes and I descended the four flights of stairs, passed the concierge’s loge, and stepped out onto the narrow street crowded with people. A carriage went by, the horse’s hooves clopping on the cobblestones.
“It’s hard to believe out here in the daylight,” I said, “that any of what he told us could possibly be true.”
“There is always something rather unbelievable, incredulous, about evil. He is an expert in such matters.”
“You said he was a priest. Does he have a parish, a congregation?”
“No.”
“Then what on earth does he do for a living?”
“He has some
limited family income. He is working on his magnum opus.” Holmes smiled, forestalling my next question. “A grand history of witchcraft and Satanism throughout the ages.”
“And you think somehow Satanism is linked to the case of Mrs. Hardy?”
“As I said: I am not certain. We do know someone is trying to frighten her, and if she is a devout Catholic, then the Devil provides a ready-made tool.”
“Four for the Devil,” I murmured softly. It was not that cold, but I felt a sudden shiver make my shoulders rise.
“Exactly.”
Holmes and I had an excellent lunch together, and then I went back to the hotel, while he set off in a cab to visit various art galleries. I was to meet him later that afternoon in front of Notre Dame. After a brief rest, I strolled back along the Rue de Rivoli toward the Île de la Cité and the cathedral. I considered stopping at the Louvre, but the sun had broken through the clouds, flooding the broad avenue and the narrow side streets with yellow light. After so many days of dismal gray clouds or yellow fog, it seemed a shame to waste such a day indoors.
Instead I wandered through the old Jewish quarter of the Marais to the Place des Vosges. This was another spot that was often full of people in summer, but now the green lawn was deserted. I strolled through the arcades round the square and stopped for a coffee. I drank it outside, enjoying the sun on my face, but I kept on my gloves and did not dawdle long. I took my time making my way back. I crossed one bridge to the Île Saint-Louis, then soon another over to the Île de la Cité. By then, the sun was down, the great square before the Notre Dame Cathedral in twilight. I pulled out my watch, saw that I was early, and passed through the massive door into the church.
It was much cooler inside, the vaulted ceiling far above hidden in shadow. All the color seemed to have gone out of the world, only grays, blacks, muted browns and shadow remaining. As I walked down the central aisle, I could hear voices off to the side and the murmur of my footsteps echoing above. When I was halfway to the altar, I turned to sit on one of the benches with their wicker seats. Before me a row of thick pillars rose up into arches. The air was damp, heavy, with a faint hint of—what else?—incense.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four Page 4
