More From the Deed Box of John H. Watson MD

by Ashton, Hugh

  It was one of those English June days which are more like a return to the days of March than the season indicated by the calendar. The temperature was unpleasantly cool, the sky was grey, and the rain, blown horizontally by the wind, lashed the almost deserted streets of London.

  I was at that time lodging with Holmes, my wife having taken herself to the waters of Baden-Baden. I had been prevented from accompanying her on account of my old war wound, which had flared up painfully a little before the time of her departure, and it was a convenience, as well as a pleasure, for me to accept the hospitality of the great detective, and resume our bachelor existence at 221B Baker Street.

  I was idling away the time by examining Holmes’ library and beginning a re-ordering of his books, which appeared to be in no particular order, making it impossible to locate any desired volume. He, for his part, was standing by the window, watching the rain, and whatever passers-by were braving the weather.

  He turned in my general direction. “Please do not disturb the order of the books, Watson. I may need to consult them at some time in the future, and I have no wish to dissipate my energies in searching in unfamiliar places for my old friends.”

  “But Holmes,” I remonstrated. “These books are in no rational order. They are arranged neither by subject, nor by author, nor in any fashion that I can discern. There is no possible way that you can know where they are.”

  “On the contrary,” he retorted sharply, “I have a full and complete knowledge of the contents and arrangement of the books on my shelves, as I will now demonstrate to you, needless though it is for me to do so.” So saying, he turned his back to me. “Pray supply me with a shelf and the position of a title on it.”

  “Such as the third shelf down in the left-hand book-case, and the fifth title from the left?” I suggested.

  “Exactly like that,” he replied without turning. “Hartupp on Probate. It is a red cloth-bound quarto edition.”

  “Very good,” I replied, not a little astounded. “The fifth shelf down on the right-hand case, and the second volume from the right?”

  “The 1872 edition of Debrett’s, in the usual binding.”

  “It is indeed. And the bottom shelf of the same case, tenth from the left?”

  “Bullock and Turner on Deep-sea Pacific Fishes. Cloth-bound in tan buckram,” he replied promptly. Now,” turning to face me, “please have the goodness to restore order from the chaos into which you have placed those first volumes you have removed from the shelves. Aha!” he exclaimed, breaking off from his criticism of my attempts to act as a librarian. “This is a strange sort of client, to be sure.” The bell downstairs rang as he spoke, and I could hear the landlady, Mrs Hudson, admitting a visitor. Shortly afterwards, the door opened to admit a Romish priest, a class of individual who had not, to my knowledge, previously graced the portals of Holmes’ establishment.

  “Well, Father Donahue,” said Holmes genially, “it is a foul day, to be sure. It must have been a cold walk from Euston. Will you take tea, or something a little stronger?”

  The priest gave a start. “How in the world would you be knowing my name, Mr Holmes? And how did you know that I had walked from Euston station and I had not taken a cab or an omnibus, or even the Underground railway?” These words were delivered with more than a touch of an Irish brogue.

  Holmes smiled. “As to the last, I see the stub of a return ticket from Watford protruding from your waistcoat pocket. That gives me Euston station. I know that you did not arrive by cab, because I observed you from this window here. The state of your coat and your umbrella – pray give them and your hat to Watson here – leads me to believe that your method of transport was the old standby of Shanks’s mare.”

  “Very good, Mr Holmes,” replied the priest, divesting himself of his wet things. “But my name? How do you know that?”

  “Even if it were not stitched into your umbrella, Father, I should be a dullard indeed if I could not remember the name of the incumbent of that fine piece of architecture in the Gothic style, Holy Rood Church in Watford.”

  The little priest stared at Holmes as if at a ghost. “By the living God, Mr Holmes, do you keep a knowledge of the names of all the churches and their priests in the land in that head of yours?”

  “No, no,” laughed Holmes. “Only of those in the Home Counties.” Father Donahue still appeared staggered by Holmes’ coup. “But make yourself comfortable, Father, and name your choice. It is a cold day, and I myself will indulge in a small brandy and soda, despite the hour.”

  “If there is a drop of whisky in the house?” the priest suggested. “With maybe a little soda water, if you please.”

  “Watson, if you would,” requested Holmes. I sensed that since I had been cast in the role of servant, being somewhat out of favour as a result of my attempts to re-arrange Holmes’ books, but I bit my tongue and said nothing as I prepared the drinks.

  “Your very good health, gentlemen,” proposed the Irishman as he raised his glass to us. We returned the toast, and the ruddy-faced Catholic priest, clad in the sober black of his calling, sipped his drink.

  “You require assistance?” enquired Holmes.

  “You once acted for one of my flock, Mr Charles Underhill, in a matter of some delicacy, and he spoke most highly of you on that occasion. I remembered this when this business on which I am visiting you became apparent.”

  “Ah yes, the affair of the missing emerald brooch. The milkman was the guilty party there, I recall. I must warn you, though, that I am more a practitioner of criminal than of canon law, and my theological skills are sadly limited.”

  The priest smiled. “Mr Holmes, I have a dark suspicion that your skills in criminal law are what are required here. The theology you may leave to me. Have you ever heard of the Paradol Chamber?”

  Holmes shook his head. “I am aware, of course, of the unfortunate French writer Lucien-Anatole Prévost-Paradol. But that is the extent of my knowledge regarding the name. Please tell your story.”

  “I am, as you are aware, though the Lord God Himself knows how you manage to keep such things in your head, Patrick Donahue, the priest of Holy Rood Church in Watford. It is a very quiet parish, and my flock is a small, but devout one. Among my parishioners is an elderly gentleman, a Mr Francis Faulkes. He is descended from one of the great Catholic families of England, and his line has never veered from the True Faith. He is given out to be very wealthy, and his gifts to the church over the years have indeed been extremely generous. In the past he has given me to understand that on his death, his considerable estate will be left to Holy Rood Church for the construction of a Lady Chapel. He has never married, and to the best of my knowledge, he has no close relatives who would make a claim on the estate.”

  “This would be a considerable sum of money?” asked Holmes. “Father, your glass is empty. Watson,” he half-commanded. I re-filled the cleric’s glass, and he continued with his story.

  “It would, to be sure. I have not made an exact calculation, but thirty thousand pounds in cash, in addition to the proceeds of the sale of his properties, would not seem to be an unreasonable estimate.”

  “That is indeed a substantial sum,” agreed Holmes. “How old is this Mr Faulkes, and what is his current state of health?”

  “He is about seventy years old – in fact, seventy-one according to the parish register – and he is in excellent health. I am no physician, but to my eyes, he has many more years to enjoy before he quits this world.”

  “And this Mr Faulkes is the root of your problem?” enquired Holmes.

  “I would not go so far as to say that,” replied the priest. “His money is almost certainly at the heart of the matter, though. Radix malorum est cupiditas.”

  “‘The love of money is the root of evil’,” Holmes translated. “Yes, I think that is one point where you and I would agree, Father,” he smiled. “There are others, I take it, who also have an interest in this affair?”

  “This is so. And this is where th
e group I mentioned earlier, the Paradol Chamber, enters the tale. Just over one month ago, Mr Faulkes appeared at Confession. As you know, my lips are sealed as to what he confessed as his sins. They were venial ones, to be sure, but I gave him a light penance for his misdemeanours, and pronounced Absolution. Following this, he and I were left alone together in the church, and he asked if he could talk to me on another matter. A priest’s ear is open to all in distress, and he informed me of some printed matter in the form of leaflets that he had received from a group calling itself the Paradol Chamber. These leaflets appeared to contain threats to his life.”

  “Were these direct threats?” replied Holmes, who had been lounging languidly in his chair at the start of this recital, but now appeared to be galvanised into some sort of interest, and sat forward, all attention. “Pray proceed, and describe these leaflets, if you would.”

  “Each consisted of a single sheet of paper, printed neatly and precisely. I have, as you can imagine, very little experience of this kind of affair, but my knowledge of these matters,” here the priest appeared a little embarrassed, “gained, I grant, only from popular fiction such as is printed in the weekly magazines, would seem to indicate that such communications are usually hand-written. They appeared to be direct threats, to answer your first question just now.”

  “How did Mr Faulkes come by these leaflets? Were they delivered by post?” asked Holmes.

  “Now, Mr Holmes, you have hit upon one of the wonders of the thing. Mr Faulkes discovered them in his missal when he attended the Sunday Mass.”

  “So are we to assume that others in the congregation also encountered these leaflets, or is Mr Faulkes the only recipient of this mysterious group’s attentions?”

  “If they did, none has ever told me of them. Indeed, I have asked several of the more reliable members of my flock, discreetly, you may be sure, whether the name of ‘Paradol’ meant anything to them. None claimed to have heard the name before.”

  “Most interesting,” replied Holmes. “How many of these have been received so far?”

  “Four, one on each of the previous Sundays up to now.”

  “All the same?”

  “They all convey the same message in principle, but the wording differs slightly in each case.”

  “And does Mr Faulkes always occupy the same place at Mass?”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “So the leaflets would seem to be placed in advance for him and him alone to discover. I see. Who has access to the church before your service?”

  The priest smiled. “The whole town. The House of God is always open for private prayer.”

  “Quite so, quite so,” Holmes murmured. “Do you happen to have one of these leaflets with you?” he asked.

  The priest smiled. “I had a premonition that you would ask for that,” he replied. “I therefore obtained one of these from Mr Faulkes on the pretext that I would examine its content in order to determine its content and meaning more exactly. He was somewhat reluctant to pass it to me at first, but in the end he relented.”

  “Your foresight is commendable,” smiled Holmes, taking the envelope that the cleric held out to him, and extracting a half-sheet of printed foolscap. “Watson, let us have your opinions on this first.”

  I determined to show my abilities in the field, since Holmes appeared to be desirous of exposing me in front of our visitor as some sort of revenge for my previous actions. As it happened, my service in India had provided me with the opportunity of playing an active role in the production of the regimental gazette, and I was therefore familiar with the materials and techniques used by printers. Taking the paper, I caught hold of one of Holmes’ lenses from the desk, and proceeded with my examination. “Excellent quality laid paper,” I pronounced. “High quality rag paper with a watermark that I do not recognise, but if I had to make a pronouncement, would guess was French.” I applied the loupe to the printing. “Letterpress printing rather than lithography, and quite probably a hand-press – there is an unevenness that would not be apparent with a stereotype or a mechanical press. The typeface itself is unfamiliar to me, but I think it is almost certainly Continental.” I passed the paper to Holmes.

  “The typeface is Bodoni,” said he with a glance. “The paper is, I think, Italian, from what I can make of the watermark. If you will have the goodness, Watson, to pass me the seventh book from the left on the second shelf of the central case,” and there was a somewhat malicious twinkle in his eyes, “I can confirm this. As to the rest, I concur fully. Excellent observations, Watson, I must admit.”

  I passed the volume, which proved to be a directory of European paper manufactories, to Holmes, who flicked through the pages, and sat back, satisfied. “Yes, Italian, from a manufactory near Rome. Antodelli e Fratelli. As to the content,” he reapplied himself to an examination, “this is definitely interesting. ‘You will have the goodness to return to us what is not yours to hold and retain and what is rightfully ours. If you do not do this thing, it is our advice to you that you make your peace with God, for then you will surely meet Him soon’. Signed, if we may term a printed line of type a signature, ‘The Paradol Chamber’.” His face took on an expression of seriousness. “The others all contained a similar message, you say?”

  “That is so.”

  “And there have been four so far? What place does this particular example occupy in the series?”

  “It is the third, the one before last.”

  “Has the tone, or the urgency contained in the message, increased, do you feel? Has the level of threatened danger to Mr Faulkes increased, in your opinion? I see no time or final date by which the demands are to be met.”

  The other knotted his brows in thought. “I apologise for not being able to bring the others, or to have made notes of the exact wording, but I recollect that they were all much the same. Certainly there was no date or time set for the return of the property mentioned in them.”

  “Has he, or have you, contacted the police in this regard?”

  “I have not done so, and I am reasonably certain that he has not, or he would not have come to me, I feel. This could, after all, be no more than a prank of some kind, though it would be a poor sort of joke, and it would hardly reflect well on me or Mr Faulkes if we were to waste the police’s time with some sort of hoax.”

  “True,” replied Holmes. “However, the threat contained in these missives would appear to be of serious intent. Although, based on my past experiences, the official police would have been unable to discover the origin of these messages, they would nonetheless have been able to provide some kind of protection against attacks to Mr Faulkes.”

  “You take this matter seriously, Mr Holmes?”

  “Threats of this nature are never to be dismissed lightly, Father. It may be, as you say, a hoax of a particularly repellent kind, or it may have a murderous intent behind it. As for the item or items referred to in the message, you have no idea to what this refers? He has not mentioned anything of this to you?”

  The other shrugged. “I cannot say. He is well-known as a collector of antiquities, but I have never even entered his house, so I cannot say for sure on what basis this is said, or what manner of old things he collects.”

  “If those reports are true and we are to believe this ,” replied Holmes, “then we may consider that he has acquired some kind of antiquity to which others may claim ownership, but whether this acquisition is legitimate or otherwise, we have no way of knowing.” He regarded the piece of paper once more, and frowned at it. “Though there are no mistakes of orthography here, somehow this does not appear to me to be written by an Englishman. I would also note that the way the longer words are broken at the end of lines does not follow English printers’ practices, but would seem to argue a Latin touch. We may be relatively certain, Father, that your parishioner is receiving his messages from an Italian – possibly even from Italy or Rome. Has Faulkes travelled abroad a good deal?” asked my friend.

  “Why, yes, to b
e sure he has. He has taken an Italian holiday at least four times in the past ten years since I have been priest at Holy Rood. Possibly even five or six, now I come to recollect matters more clearly. I believe he was once received by the Holy Father himself at the Vatican.”

  “Those trips abroad would argue in favour of the theory of a purloined antiquity or some such, would it not?” Holmes examined the printed matter once more. “As I said, I have never heard of this ‘Paradol Chamber’ that claims to be the author of this document, but I would like to look into the matter a little more. Would it cause you or Mr Faulkes any inconvenience if I were to retain this paper for a while?”

  “By no means,” replied the priest. “I can easily explain to Mr Faulkes that the document is being scrutinised by an expert, and in truth, I would sooner the devilish thing were as far away from me as possible.” He sat forward in his chair, obviously much agitated, and made the sign of the cross.

  “You believe the origin to be diabolical, then?” Holmes replied, obviously amused. “I smell no brimstone, and I see no marks of the Devil’s hoof.”

  “It is no joking matter to me, Mr Holmes, no matter what you may think. Believe me, I have seen the Devil at work, and I believe these papers to be part of his doing.”

  Holmes leant forward. His tone was now serious. “Father Donahue, I take your meaning. I too have witnessed evil at work, even if I do not see a personification of evil such as the Devil in those instances. I apologise if I have offended your beliefs. I too believe there is some evil – I will not use your terms here – afoot, and I will gladly aid you in discovering it, and laying it to rest.”

  “Thank you, Mr Holmes. You put my spirit somewhat at ease with those words. With your permission, gentlemen, I see that the rain has slackened a little, and I will take my leave of you and wish you both a very good day. Having witnessed your knowledge and memory, Mr Holmes, I will not leave my card, as I am now certain that you need no such reminder of how to communicate with me.” He smiled. “You will no doubt let me know as soon as you have come to any conclusions.”