The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four
Page 26
The two acolytes went behind the altar and pulled away the coverings, revealing a large tapestry of a dragon-like Satan rising from the fires of Hell, and a huge deranged crucifix, a naked Christ with an enormous member protruding grotesquely like Pinocchio’s nose, equally and ridiculously long. One did not have to be a devout Catholic to find the figure blasphemous and disturbing.
“You have been given a second chance, Madame Hardy—a chance to be born anew by dedicating yourself to Satan.” He whirled about and raised his arms toward the leering figure on the tapestry. I was grateful the chasuble hid his backside. “Master of Slanders, dispenser of the benefits of crime, administrator of sumptuous sins and great vices, Satan, thee we adore, reasonable God, just God!
“Superadmirable legate of false trances, thou receivest our beseeching tears; thou savest the honor of families by aborting wombs impregnated in the forgetfulness of the good orgasm; thou dost suggest to the mother the hastening of untimely birth, and thine obstetrics spares the still-born children the anguish of maturity, the contamination of original sin. Mainstay of the despairing poor, cordial of the vanquished, it is thou who endowest them with hypocrisy and ingratitude that they may defend themselves against the children of God, the rich! Great suzerain of virility, thou dost not demand the futile offerings of chaste loins; thou alone receivest the carnal supplications of our divine lust! Thou who dost fertilize the brain of man whom injustice has crushed, who breathest into him the idea of vengeance, who incitest him to calumny, violence, theft and murder, to thee we pray, great God, king of the disinherited, son who art to overthrow the inexorable Father!”
He paused for a second, and Sumners murmured, “A nice Manichean touch, that.”
Docre resumed his litany of praise to Satan and to sin. Marguerite stood silently before his jumbled incoherent stream of words, her face white. Michelle still had her arm around her. After finally finishing his paean to Satan, Docre swung an arm toward the horrible crucifix behind the altar: “Jesus, artisan of hoaxes, bandit of homage, robber of affection, hear!—fugitive god, mute god, shyster god!” Thus began a torrent of abuse directed toward Christ. Again, one need not be a devout Catholic to find Docre’s cruel blasphemous ravings upsetting. He ended by proclaiming that he would drive deeper the nails into His hands and open another wound in His side with the spear!
He whirled about and grasped a golden chalice from the altar, then withdrew, of all things, a black host and held it up. “And soon we shall consume your foul and polluted body!” Many of the women had begun to shriek and groan, to sway back and forth.
I clenched my teeth tightly. The fetid atmosphere made me feel as if I was suffocating. I could not endure much more of this. Come what may, I was nearly ready to drag Michelle and Marguerite from this dreadful place.
Docre laughed gleefully. “Are you ready to join us in our sacrament, Madame Hardy?” She could not speak, but she shook her head emphatically. “No? A pity, that.” He put the black host back in the chalice and set the goblet upon the altar. “Perhaps you can be persuaded. Perhaps she can persuade you.”
Marguerite stared at him, her eyes wary. He stepped back, then swung his arm round toward the right. He did look absurd in that funny hat with red horns and a red chasuble with a billy goat on it.
“Don’t you understand? You are already one of us. You always have been. You simply refuse to acknowledge it.” A woman in shadow near the wall had spoken, a woman in red robes cut like a monk’s, with a hood and a rope for a belt. I hadn’t noticed her before in the crowd.
She slowly came forward, then pulled back her hood with her small white hands, revealing a beautiful face with arching eyebrows and full narrow lips made for a seductive pout. Long blond hair hung on either side, curling down onto the scarlet fabric. Upon closer look, you could see her face was a trifle worn, creases at the corners of her eyes and lines on her forehead.
“Dear Lord,” Marguerite moaned.
The woman laughed softly. “You recognize me, I see. It has been a long time, has it not, Marguerite? I hope you don’t mind if I call you Marguerite. We used our first names before. I was always Simone, and you—you were Suzanne, back then.”
Marguerite’s mouth twitched. Her hand was trembling. “Are you going to kill me, too?”
“I certainly hope that will not be necessary. As I said—and as the good abbé demands—we simply want you to join us in our dedication to the one true Master.” She gave a slight nod in the direction of the tapestry. “Satan.”
The muscles of her throat rippled as Marguerite tried to swallow. “Is this some—some joke?”
Simone’s smile vanished. “Hardly a joke. I only want you to acknowledge the truth, that you have committed the blackest of sins and that you are damned along with the rest of us.”
Marguerite was silent for a moment, then whispered hoarsely, “No.”
“Do you deny you are a sinner?”
Marguerite bit fiercely at her lip, then shook her head. “We are all sinners.”
“And all damned as well, perhaps! Surely you cannot believe that you can live off the fruits of your sin for twenty years—live off the blood, so to speak, of the Count de Laval—and that somehow God will forgive you!” She laughed. “No, no, that is not likely.”
“God can forgive any sin,” Michelle said sternly. I quickly shook my head, but she didn’t even notice me.
“Ah, and this must be the lady doctor I have heard so much about. Enchanté, madame. Say what you will, but Marguerite and I know better. If ever a sin were mortal, it was ours—and it was one sin, one sin shared between the two of us. The count’s blood is on us both.”
“No,” Marguerite groaned.
“You conceived of the plan. It was your idea to murder him—your idea to stab him.”
“But I did not—I could not.”
“Ah, but you could and you did—I was only your tool. I was like the dagger itself to you, only a means to an end. You knew that if you could not do it, I could. You knew that from the first. That was why you chose me. So there could be no way out, so that he must die. You chose your blade well.”
“I did not know that—I swear I did not. I did not dream you were such a monster.”
“Monster? You call me a monster? If I am a monster, who else created me, but you? Come along now, say you will join us. Say you will consume the black host and acknowledge Satan as your lord and master. Say that you will let the good father take you here before the altar to consummate the bargain.”
A strange laugh slipped from Marguerite. “No!”
“I shall go first with him, if that will make it easier for you.”
Docre was watching the two women, and I could see in his eyes that he found the mere suggestion exciting. My right hand formed a fist. Before long, I would hit him. This whole terrible business—this ceremony and its tortured participants—all teetered between the comical and the horrible: one minute I wanted to laugh, the next to scream.
Simone took a step nearer, then another. She held out her small hand and touched Marguerite lightly on the cheek. Their eyes were locked. “We were always friends. Sisters, almost—there was a bond between us. I give you the chance again to be my friend.”
“We were never friends. Never.”
“Ah.” Simone let her hand drop. “Friendship, love, loyalty… all empty abstractions. The truth is we live for ourselves, only ourselves. The true Master reigns in solitude, a universal solitude we all share. In the end, there is no friendship amongst the damned, only an acknowledgment of the terrible banal nothingness of the universe. Accept it—accept Satan, or die. The choice is yours.”
“You are a liar, like your Master.” Marguerite’s voice shook with emotion. “I will never join you—never.”
“Then die, harlot!—die!” Docre screamed. He turned to snatch a knife which lay on the altar next to the chalice, then swung it around and raised the blade high. The chasuble flapped out, and you could see his thin white naked body.
I started forward, even as Michelle grabbed Marguerite and hurtled them both to the floor. From behind me, a thundering bang filled the chamber, echoing off the roof overhead. Docre screamed, and the knife fell from his hand. A sort of red flower had blossomed on his upper arm, and he clutched at it with his left hand, blood seeping from between his fingers and running down to his forearm.
Still holding the revolver, Holmes knocked aside a chair and strode toward the altar. Simone backed away and joined the other participants. Holmes picked up the chalice and hurled its contents at the congregation, the black hosts scattering about like dirty hailstones. “Out!—all of you out!” he shouted. He raised the revolver and fired once at the ceiling, knocking loose some plaster. People fled noisily for the exit.
Holmes thrust the revolver into his jacket pocket, then strode around the altar. He took the large crucifix off the wall, then raised it with both hands and smashed it as hard as he could against the marble top of the altar. The head and outspread arms broke off with flying splinters. He hit it again, knocking off the ridiculous phallus, then let it drop. He turned once more and used both hands to tear down the tapestry of Satan. Once accomplished, he stomped on it twice for good measure. Finally he broke each of the black candles, and then hurled the brass holders out amidst the chairs of the chapel.
Sumners smiled broadly and actually clapped his hands. “Oh well done, Holmes! Very well done!” The portly cleric was the only one of us who seemed none the worse for wear.
Michelle had helped Marguerite up. Docre was moaning and whimpering, and she wrapped her scarf round his wounded arm, then cinched it tightly. I grabbed the ridiculous hat by one of the red horns and pulled it off his head. “Where are your trousers!” I demanded sternly. He did not answer. He looked even paler than usual, his forehead damp beneath his matted black hair.
Holmes was breathing hard, a wild light still showing in his eyes. “Violet—where is she?”
“She went out,” Sumners said. “She was following that small woman in the red robe, I believe.”
“Damnation!” Holmes snarled. His face pale beneath his black hair, he threw chairs aside with a single hand as he made his way to the aisle. Marguerite followed him, as did Michelle and I. As I walked, I awkwardly got on my overcoat, thrusting first one arm into the sleeve, then the other.
“No running for me!” Sumners called out from behind us. “I shall just give the altar a splash of holy water and a quick blessing, then look after our wounded celebrant.”
We went out the big main doors, and the cool damp air of night was a profound relief after the stench of the chapel. I drew in great breaths, even as I tried to keep up with Holmes, who had just pushed open the gate in the stone wall. A few members of the congregation stood about looking dazed or lost, but they ignored us. I stepped through the entryway and saw Holmes at the end of the alleyway. My walk became almost a run. I looked back once and saw Michelle and Marguerite just behind me.
Holmes was halfway down the block, nearing the square before Saint-Sulpice. I wondered if he had Violet in sight, or was just guessing which way she might have gone. The wind picked up, cold, and now wet on my face. A few hard drops of rain had begun to fall. A carriage rumbled by in the opposite direction, its lamps lighting up the cobblestones. I reached the end of the street and saw Holmes running across the square and around the shut-off fountain dedicated to the four bishops. Clearly he was headed for the main entrance of the church.
I followed, but he was going at a frightful pace. It was hard to believe a small woman like Simone could have been so fleet of foot. I went round the fountain and saw the tall white pillars of the great church with the steps between them. Holmes bounded upward, taking two or three at a time. Something was heaped before me on the ground. Hard to judge color in such low light, but it had a hint of red. I suspected it must be Simone’s robe.
Because of his tobacco usage, my wind was much better than Holmes’s, and I was gaining on him. Violet and Simone must be veritable gazelles. I also took the steps several at a time, then turned and went to the big door which had just swung shut behind Holmes. Inside the vestibule a candle flickered beneath a lamp on a small table. A short stout man in a dark suit had risen from his chair and gave me an alarmed look. “Monsieur, monsieur—it is the house of God—one must not run in here!” I strode past him and pushed open the door to the church itself.
A great black cavern opened up before me, musty-smelling, with a faint hint of incense, and in the distance flickering candles lit up chapels or statues, and farthest away was the dim red lamp by the tabernacle of the main altar. I had a sick feeling about where they must have gone. I turned and found the doorway to the bell tower. I could hear someone above me on the stairs and then Holmes shouting, “Violet!”
“At least it’s dark,” I mumbled. One candle was lit, and others were on holders. I used the lit candle to light another.
Michelle and Marguerite came through the doorway. “There you are,” Michelle said. “Have they gone up?”
“Yes. I don’t suppose you would consider waiting here?”
“No, Henry.”
Marguerite’s mouth looked stiff, her great dark eyes filled with emotion. “I must finish this.”
I shook my head, then started up the winding spiral. “Sherlock!” I cried. “Wait for us!”
We went round and round, then came out on the first landing by the doorways. Holmes stood holding a candle, a tall dark figure with a white face and hatchet nose, Violet smaller and slender, the color of her purple dress only showing in the halo of light round the candle flame. Both had left their overcoats behind in the chapel. She was smiling fiercely.
“She has gone up there—we have her now—she’s trapped!” She whirled about and plunged upward into the darkness of the ascending stairway.
Holmes’s long white fingers groped at the air. “Wait, Violet!—no!” But he might as well have tried to stop the wind. He followed her up the stairs.
I shook my head at Michelle and Marguerite. “Blast it! You should both stay here—you should go no further.”
Michelle smiled faintly, but Marguerite glared at me, showing real anger for the first time I could recall. “You heard me—I have run from her for long enough!”
I shook my head again and started up the stairs, holding the candle before me to light the way. The two women followed. By an effort of will, I did not look to the side to remark the deepening abyss at the center of the tower as we climbed ever upward, but I was aware of the dark massive shapes of the bells. As we passed the sounding shutters, I felt air on my face and occasionally heard the wind whisper, a kind of high shuddery hum. At one point I recalled that Holmes had said the tower was over two hundred feet high, a fact which I would have preferred to forget!
We came at last to the upper rotunda of the tower. Simone was near the final stairway to the roof, while Holmes and Violet stood some six or seven feet back from her. A candle on its holder was set on a ledge, and it illuminated Simone’s face and also her hands, one of which held some small firearm. Compared to the other women’s, her free hand was small, yet white and perfectly shaped, quite delicate—a perfect lady’s hand. No trouble finding gloves for her! She wore an azure blue silk, something very well cut and expensive, far from the red woolen robe. She smiled at us.
She might look a bit worn about the edges, so to speak, but she still had luminous skin and eyes, a pert nose and full rose-red lips. One could certainly understand how she had woven a spell around men like Lupin and Docre. But I knew her beauty and that aura of innocence were utterly false, only a snare set to trap the unwary in a noose of evil.
“Welcome, welcome,” she said. “We are all together at last. No more lunatic priests or crazed worshipers. We can have a serious conversation in private.” I had stopped, but Marguerite grasped the railing and slipped by me. “Do be careful, Marguerite. I fear the railing here is in a sor
ry state of repair. We do not want you to have an accident and fall. By the way, as I just explained to Mr. Holmes, this is an American derringer I am holding, a small gun which can fire two shots. Because of its diminutive size, it is a perfect lady’s weapon, especially for a petite woman like myself. However, it is not a toy. Emptied into someone’s chest at close range, it would no doubt prove fatal. You must keep your distance and come no closer than Mr. Holmes.”
“You cannot shoot us all,” Michelle muttered. It was, I reflected, an absurdly self-evident statement.
Simone laughed. “One of you should be quite enough, I suspect, to compel you to do as I say! However, I don’t wish to shoot anyone. We are at a standoff, and it is time we talked business. It is time we talked about what comes next.”
Her grating familiarity and joking tone infuriated me. “What comes next is that you go back to prison, and then to the guillotine!”
Michelle grasped my arm tightly. “Henry.”
Simone laughed again. “That, I am afraid, is not a viable option. Here is what I propose. We shall all descend the tower, and then go our separate ways. All that has happened will be forgotten, and Madame Hardy and I shall each lead our separate lives. She can have Paris and London, while the rest of the continent shall be at my disposal. Neither of us shall ever see one another or interfere in the other’s life again.”
Holmes gave a short bitter laugh. “And why on earth would we ever trust you to keep such a bargain?”
“Because you have no choice. If you turn me over to the police, I shall tell them the truth about the Count de Laval’s murder and the theft of La Madonna della Mela. I shall reveal how Marguerite Hardy planned the whole thing and how she has lived off the wealth of her scheme for two decades. In short, if I go back to prison and then to the guillotine, I shall not go alone this time! She will accompany me.”