“Who will be available?”
“Monsieur l’Abbé Jules Docre.”
“Why do you want to see him?”
“Come now, Henry! Surely that is obvious even to you.”
“I suppose it is, but what’s the great hurry?”
“Well, if nothing else, it is to see him today while in the guise of the good Dr. James Sumners, rather than as Sherlock Holmes. I would prefer not to waste another couple of hours tomorrow applying a fake beard and makeup.”
“But the name of Sherlock Holmes might carry more weight.”
He smiled faintly. “Just now I do not want to carry more weight. Come along, Vicar.”
We found a cab, but it was slow going because of the late afternoon traffic. We made our way eastward and across the Seine toward Saint-Sulpice. We stepped out at the square before the great church. A cold drizzle fell. The nearby fountain of the four bishops, each in their little alcove underneath the ornate sculpted roof, was shut off, and the plane trees were bare of leaves. I paused to stare up at the great facade with its many pillars and two mismatched towers, the slightly taller bell tower on the left, then followed Holmes. We went up some steps, passed between two columns, and he pulled open one of the massive doors.
Inside the vestibule an old man in a dark suit sat near a table with pamphlets and papers, his short plump hands folded neatly on his lap. A small lamp barely illuminated the shadowy space. Holmes asked if he knew where we might find Monsieur l’Abbé Docre. He told us the priest often spent the time after dusk atop the bell tower, which could be reached from a stairway with an entrance near the side chapel dedicated to Saint Francis Xavier.
The interior of the church was a great echoey dark cavern, distant candles at the altar and others in the chapels providing the only light. Holmes found some candles near the doorway to the tower. “Are you ready for some exercise?” he asked.
I shook my head. “He would be up in the tower! If it were day, I think I would have to let you go on alone because of my vertigo, but I suppose in the dark I cannot see any great depths.”
“Exactly. Just follow me and don’t look down.”
We started round a winding staircase. Holmes held the candle on its holder out to one side, providing a feeble light. Up only a floor or so was a wooden landing with several doors, but we did not stop. As we climbed into the darkness, the candlelight briefly showed the rounded worn bronze of enormous bells and great crisscrossing oaken beams reinforced with iron, the bolt heads and nuts the width of a man’s hand. Intermittently along the outer wall were the huge slanted slats of the sounding shutters. A wet chill wind sighed softly through the gaps.
We reached a wooden platform, and Holmes stopped briefly to catch his breath. When the wind increased, the tower seemed to hum faintly. Occasionally there was an actual whistling. We resumed our climb and soon came to the largest bell yet. Holmes shone the candle on some writing on its exterior, but I could not make it out. An intricate floral and leaf design in relief was all along the upper part of the bell.
“The great bells all have names,” Holmes said, “women’s names like Thérèse and Caroline. Rather corpulent dames, I fear, weighing several tons apiece. This monster here takes four men to ring.” He paused to gesture with the candle. “You grasp the iron bar there with your hands, then work in tandem with your partner, pushing with your feet at those boards to move the bell. There are places for two more men on the opposite side.”
“Lord, I can only imagine what it must sound like up here. I don’t know how they can endure the din.”
“If they are sensible, they have cotton wool stuffed in their ears. However, the old master bell-ringers all suffer from deafness to some degree.”
My hand firmly grasped the iron rail, sliding along the cold curving metal as we climbed upward into the darkness. We passed more sounding shutters, and I knew we must be in the tallest section of the tower. We came to another wooden landing, a rotunda, and its center opened into the depths below. Only a rather rickety-looking rail of black iron stained with orange rust protected us from the abyss, and I instinctively stepped back toward the wall.
Holmes grasped the railing and gave it a shake. “I certainly would not rely on this for safety. It seems overdue for replacement.” He stroked his chin briefly. “I’m not sure I can resist… This must go all the way to the bottom, Henry, and as I recall the tower is slightly over two-hundred feet tall.”
I shook my head with a shiver. “Do not tell me how tall the tower is.”
He had reached into his pocket and withdrawn something. He set down the candle on a ledge formed by an oaken beam, then held out a coin over the abyss. “No one can be below. We would have heard them. Dropping this should be harmless enough.”
He opened his fingers, and I stepped a little closer. Almost immediately there was a clink of metal striking metal as the coin hit a bell below, and then nothing.
Holmes had leaned forward, but after two or three seconds, he stepped back. “Did you hear that final plop, Henry? No? You were too far away. I could hear it very distantly. Let us see if Monsieur l’Abbé is up top.”
A final bit of iron stairway curved upward, and a misty rain swept in through the lighter, rectangular opening to the outside. Holmes started up the stairs. I hesitated, then followed him. I didn’t step out onto the roof until I was certain there was a protecting wall. Even then, I stayed in the center grasping an iron railing. Because of the wind and the distant rumble of the city, the man in black with his back to us must have heard nothing.
“Monsieur l’Abbé Docre?” Holmes called.
He turned, and the light from the yellow-gray sky let us see him clearly. His wet black hair was plastered down, but his pale proud aristocratic face showed a curious nervous energy, especially his eyes. His nose was long and thin, his cheekbones stood out, and his mouth was narrow with full, rather petulant lips. His thin neck jutted out from the band of the white roman collar, and the black soutane with its notch at the throat was his only garment.
“Oui?” he asked.
“Do you speak English?” Holmes asked.
At that his lips formed almost a sneer. “Pas de tout.”
Holmes switched to French. “In that case, I shall try my French.” I could tell that Holmes was actually playing up his English accent. He walked to the stone balustrade. “Quite a view! Robert, won’t you have a look? You can see Eiffel’s tower with its two beacon lights, and just there, the dome of Les Invalides.”
“No, thank you,” I said.
Holmes turned to the priest and pointed to the northwest. “Aren’t they building a new church on that hill over in Montmartre?”
“Yes. What do you want?”
“My friend and I wished to speak with you briefly about a matter of importance.”
“What is this matter of importance?” The drizzle was becoming a major downpour, but the priest didn’t seem to care.
“If we might step inside… It would be easier to converse.”
He shrugged. “Very well.”
We all descended the iron stairway to the rotunda. Docre came last and closed the slanted door to the exterior. I shivered slightly. It was hardly much warmer inside the tower.
“Much better,” Holmes said, even as he raised his pince-nez and put it in place upon his nose.
Docre eyed him closely, then me. “You are priests?”
“Of the Anglican faith.”
He drew back, squaring his shoulders. “False priests, in other words.”
Holmes seemed amused. “To your way of thinking, perhaps. I am Dr. James Sumners, and this is my friend, the Vicar Robert Grantly.”
“Bonsoir,” I said, mispronouncing the word horribly.
“I do not know what thing of importance two heretics would have to talk about with me.”
“Briefly, we are friends of Madame Hardy,” Holmes said, “Madame Marguerite Hardy.”
“Friends?—or tempters, rather?”
“Tempte
rs?” I asked incredulously.
“You would lead her from the true church to the false one of the abominable Henry.”
“I assure you,” Holmes said, “we are not trying to convert her. We are only worried about her.”
Docre nodded. “As well you might be. As well you might be.” He had folded his arms. His air of disdain was muted, but still apparent. He was of medium height, probably around five foot six.
“Is there not somewhere more agreeable than these lofty and cold heights where we might speak briefly?” Holmes asked.
“Yes, I suppose so.” He looked about, then bent over to pick up a torch akin to a policeman’s dark lantern. He withdrew some matches from his soutane pocket, struck one, and lit the lamp. “Come with me.”
Holmes took the candle, and we started the long descent. Docre’s torch was much more powerful than the candle, and its dancing beam opened up the interior of the tower, showing the complex network of beams, joists, ironwork, stone, and in the middle the massive forms of the bronze bells. I was careful not to look down, but only grasped the rail and lowered one foot after the other. When we came to the level with the doors just above the ground floor, Docre stopped and waited for us to join him.
“Where do these doors go?” I asked.
Docre pointed at a door. “There are some flats in the tower and above the church. That one there is where the chief bell-ringer, old Carhaix, and his wife live. Besides a place in the rectory, I have a room here where I go for silence and prayer. Come along.”
He opened the door, and the torch revealed a walkway through what must be the attic over the church itself, a cave with beams of oak on either side, each one made up of about four slabs cut at an angle, so that the effect was like the ribs inside some enormous whale. On our left was a curving surface like a giant’s skull made of splotchy bronze.
“What on earth,” I murmured, but as we advanced, I saw it was only another bell, one lying on its side with a long black crack showing that it had split. Holmes stopped to swing his candle round toward the far end, and we could see the clapper lying on the side, and the spot over and under the inner rim where it had struck the metal and made gold shiny spots. In the shaft of light you could see motes dancing about; the musty air was thick with dust. Various boxes were everywhere, as well as the colored statues of saints and angels, many with missing or broken limbs, noses, hands, feet or wings.
After about twenty yards, we came to a wooden wall built up on the right side. Docre went a little further, then turned and opened a door. We followed him inside. He set down the torch, lit a couple candles, then extinguished the torch. The room was fittingly monastic: a single bed with a hard-looking mattress, a wooden prayer stool with a black volume on its single shelf and a faded purple velvet cushion which would not offer the knees much protection, a teetery-looking table and two chairs, and a small black stove which was not lit—it was still very cold.
Docre gestured at the table and chairs. “Sit down if you wish.”
Holmes nodded, “Thank you,” pulled out a chair and sat. I also sat. My legs were tired from the climb up and down the tower. Docre took a small towel and rubbed at his wet hair with it. Then he folded his arms and stood with his back ramrod straight, peering down at us. I felt vaguely like a school boy about to be reprimanded by the master.
Holmes set the fake pince-nez on his nose, the fastidiousness of the movement uncannily mirroring his “brother” Algernon Sumners. “Mrs. Hardy told us you sought her out,” he said, “that you sensed something was wrong.”
“That is true. I often wander the streets of Paris, going here and there, and on occasion, I sense something amiss. There is a sort of pricking at the back of my neck, then a feeling of apprehension, even of anxiety. I know what that means. I follow it. I let the feeling grow stronger, but as I approach the afflicted one, it abates. I know that God has sent me as his agent. With Mrs. Hardy, I felt drawn like iron toward a magnet. Never has the attraction been so strong. I knew that she was in great peril, that not only was her life threatened, but worse still, that her immortal soul was in danger. The Enemy did not want merely death, but damnation.”
“What enemy?” I asked.
“The Devil, of course.” He stared at us suspiciously. “You do believe in the Devil, don’t you?”
Holmes nodded. “Certainly we do.” I also nodded. “Mrs. Hardy said she had an actual enemy, a woman.”
Docre frowned. “That is only speculation. A woman is hardly plausible.”
“Regardless, this enemy has cast some sort of spell upon her?”
“The person could not have done this on their own—it is not a matter of herbs, potions, or nonsensical mumbo-jumbo. In this case, someone has truly worked with the Devil. A very powerful demon—or many demons—must be involved.”
The strange energy I had noticed earlier in the priest had grown stronger, flamed in his dark eyes. His was a very handsome face. With his aristocratic bearing, his fine features, his curly black hair and pale skin, he resembled some romantic poet, another Lord Byron. I could imagine the ladies in the congregation swooning over his stern poetic sermons. The small room seemed so cold. I thrust my hands in my coat pockets, restraining a shiver.
Holmes stared closely at him. “I was under the impression that innocence could resist diabolical forces, that the Devil could not enter the house, so to speak, unless you opened the door for him.”
“A confused metaphor, Dr. Sumners. Regardless, who is truly innocent? You of the heretical church often ignore the doctrine of Original Sin. No one in this world is free from sin. Even the most innocent-looking child has wicked thoughts and desires. Only the degree of corruption varies.”
“Come now,” I said. “Isn’t that an exaggeration?”
“If you spent as much time in the confessional as we Catholic priests do, you would know the truth of my words. Who can plumb the depths of human iniquity? However, our age has its own special blight—indifference, lassitude. Remember the words of Revelation? ‘So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew thee out of my mouth.’ Active evil, in its own way, is better than blind idleness. During the Middle Ages, there were grand saints and sinners, the extremes of good and evil. Now we are left with only a sort of dull spiritual mediocrity. The great mass of humanity cannot rise to either goodness or maleficence.”
I stared at him. “It sounds as if you would prefer to have lived in the Middle Ages.”
He gave a brusque nod. “Yes.”
“Well, as a…” I caught myself. “You would not have liked the medical treatments of the time. We have made great progress.”
“Progress.” He laughed.
“Antisepsis and anesthesia have made possible…” Holmes gave me a warning look, and I stopped at once. Docre simply looked baffled.
“I too have often longed to live in a more poetic age,” Holmes said, “one in which great deeds were still possible in the name of God.”
“Then you understand.” Docre lowered his arms, hesitated, then sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress had almost no give to it.
“Let us return to the subject of Madame Hardy. So diabolical forces assail her, assisted by some powerful enemy. What do you propose to do, Monsieur l’Abbé?”
“Do?”
“How is the Devil to be thwarted? Prayer, blessings or…?”
The priest shook his head. “Petty measures may not work in her case. Her adversary has called upon demons for assistance; we may need to call forth powerful allies of our own.”
“Such as?” Holmes asked.
“The Archangel Michael and the great high priest, Melchizedek. If she has been poisoned, that is the only thing that may save her.”
“Poisoned!” I exclaimed.
Holmes glanced at me. “Remember, my brother explained to us that certain deadly venoms can be concocted from vile blasphemous ingredients, then administered by voyants or spirits of the dead.”
Docre jerked his head do
wnward. “Your brother knows what he is talking about.”
“So a ceremony may be necessary to save her?”
“Yes, but I cannot tell yet. I am still trying to determine the exact situation.”
“If we can assist you in any way…”
Docre sat up straight. “I do not…” He paused to slowly draw in his breath. “I know you mean well, but I do not need your help. You would only be in the way. Frankly, false priests such as yourselves are useless in a situation such as this.”
Holmes smiled faintly. “I see.”
“Will you be in Paris long, or…?”
“No, not long. The vicar and I will be returning to England very soon. Despite our doctrinal differences, I can tell that we will be leaving Madame Hardy in good hands.”
“I promise you that I will do everything possible to save her.”
“Tell me, Monsieur l’Abbé, you are obviously no common priest. I am no expert, but your French is excellent, not that of a common person. You were obviously well educated. Does your family come from the aristocracy?”
Holmes’s question obviously pleased the priest. “Yes. My father is a baron, and my older brother will inherit his title. My father is… His enthusiasm for the faith is somewhat remiss, but my mother is a true saint. She always encouraged my vocation and was delighted when I was ordained. We both knew from early on that I was destined for the priesthood.”
“So you have always had a religious bent?” I asked.
“‘Bent’?” He frowned. “It is not a mere inclination. From the earliest age I have been aware of the other world that hovers about us, the powerful agents of good and evil.”
Holmes hesitated. “And have you seen demons, then?”
I opened my mouth in dismay. The priest did not hesitate. “I have.”
The corners of Holmes’s mouth rose briefly. “What do they look like?”
“They are foul, of course. They are black. They are twisted. There are crusted pus-filled sores on their scorched skin, and the proportions of the body and face are all wrong. They have mouths, but as you might well assume, they have no teeth or tongues.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four Page 7
