Warlock Holmes--My Grave Ritual

by G. S. Denning

  “Nobody’s fault but your own, Watson.”

  “But… why is it even here?” I asked.

  “I stole it from Moriarty, years ago,” said Holmes. “He had a fascination with immortality. It was his main pursuit, while he lived.”

  “And why did you decide to nail it to our mantelpiece?”

  “I caught it trying to walk out of here a few nights ago. Nailed the thing to the fireplace to keep it from wandering off.”

  “I see,” I said. “So, in fact, the contents of your old Persian slipper are not tobacco, but…”

  “An old Persian,” said Holmes. “And if I’m honest, Watson, it seems like a much more apt thing to keep there, don’t you think? Why, if someone came up to me and said, ‘Guess what I’ve got in this old Persian slipper?’ I think, ‘An old Persian,’ would cross my mind long before, ‘Some delicious pipe-weed, which you have chosen to nail to the furniture.’ Really, Watson, that famous intellect of yours seems to have failed you. Not your finest hour, I fear.”

  I could not bring myself to disagree. Holmes kept peering into the slipper, giving its contents the occasional, exploratory poke. “Who would have thought?” he mused. “It’s a poor sort of immortality that can be overcome by a trusty old briar pipe and a match, eh? Oh! Say, Watson, I don’t suppose you’d consider doing the world a favor and finishing the old fellow off, would you? Just think: a weekend with a good book, a snifter of brandy and as many pipefuls of the old Xantharaxes as a fellow could ask for!”

  “Er… well… now that I know the nature of the stuff, I’ll confess I’m a bit less keen. Holmes, am I going to be all right?”

  “I should think so. You haven’t infused yourself with all of Xantharaxes, you know, just a tiny part of him. And he was known for nothing but immortality and prophecy, in any case. Nothing dangerous. I should think you’ll notice nothing but a few minor effects along those lines.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, you know, minor invulnerability. If you nick yourself with your razor this week, you might not bleed. You might stub a toe and not care. Oh, and some lesser powers of prophecy. Might be a good week to purchase a lottery ticket or invest in stocks. And some prophetic dreaming, I would think. Yes, that’s practically a given.”

  “Prophetic dreaming?”

  “Absolutely.”

  * * *

  That night, as I lay dreaming, I beheld eight haunted dolls.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Upon my window glass. I rolled over. At first, all I could see was the porcelain hand—tiny fingers outstretched but partly curved, perfectly white and fused together into a dainty little scoop. Tap. Tap. Tap went the little hand, then a white face and blonde curls sprang up behind it.

  “Aiaghughugh! What the devil?”

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Apparently, she wanted in. As I hesitated, terrified, clutching the covers up to my chin, she tilted her head to one side and asked, “Whose is it?”

  “I… What now? I’m not sure I understand your question, madam.”

  If she possessed the power to clarify, she did not employ it. Instead, she directed her gaze over my shoulder. I was about to ask if there was something in my room she wanted when I heard two more questions, from behind me.

  “Whose must it be?”

  “What was the month?”

  I whipped my head around and beheld two more of the darling little homunculi, advancing across my floor towards me. I had no chance to even gasp before I heard, “Where was the sun?” from the pillow just beside my ear.

  I hope the reader will believe me when I claim that I had not brought a dolly to bed with me that night. Yet, when I flipped over to behold the source of the noise, there she lay—her delicate cheek resting just beside my own.

  I’ll not try to print the sound I made. English spelling conventions fail me. You’ll have to imagine it. I’ll give you a clue: it was loud and unmanly.

  I sprang from my bed to run. Or maybe to fight, if you credit my character with such. In any case we shall never know, for I neglected to properly remove my bedclothes first. I wound up on the floor with a bloodied nose and a tangle of sheets around my ankles. From beneath the bed, a fifth doll emerged, wondering, “Where was the shadow?”

  Dolls 2 and 3 continued to march forward, while Doll 4 opened my window for Doll 1 who looked—in as much as a person with a rigid porcelain face can—as if she was a bit wounded that I hadn’t opened it myself. My wardrobe door opened with an ominous creak. Doll 6 was all tangled up in a pair of my trousers, but still desirous to know, “How was it stepped?”

  From the moment Holmes had mentioned it, I had the distinct feeling that prophetic dreaming and I would be a disastrous mismatch. Now I was certain. My medical bag sprang open and a seventh little white face popped out to inquire, “What shall he give for it?”

  “Careful in there! Those medicine bottles are fragile, you know!”

  “Why is it given him?” asked an eighth, struggling out of the water jug on my bedside stand.

  “How did you get in there? Look at you: you’re soaked right through!”

  Slowly, daintily, they closed on me—a circle of toys, tightening on a cowering adult. They paused, looked up at my face, drew a collective non-breath and asked together, “Whose is it?”

  From behind me came a deep rumbling voice. “Today, the diadem! Tomorrow, the thief!”

  Whirling about, I beheld Holmes. If I failed to hear his footsteps, I think I can be forgiven. He hung in the air, his toes just brushing against the floor. His head was cocked to one side so his ear nearly rested against one shoulder. His green eyes burned. His arms hung to his sides, but bent up at the elbow, then down at the wrist, in exactly the pose that sub-par puppeteers the world over feel is the natural human stance. Eight doll heads turned worshipfully towards him, as if to say, “Yay! The father of all haunted marionettes is here! We missed you, Creepy-Daddy!”

  “Whose must it be?” they all asked him.

  “The doctor. The soldier. Governor. Dupe.” The green flames that masked his eyes reflected in the dead glass orbs of my visitors.

  “Er… I don’t suppose we might have a different dream?” I asked, hopefully.

  “What was the month?”

  “A fresh birth in winter,” Holmes boomed.

  “It’s just… I’m a bit uncomfortable,” I said. “Really, this is my first prophetic one and I do feel you could have started me off with something a bit more accessible, don’t you think?”

  But the dolls paid me no heed.

  “Where the sun?”

  “Over the oak.”

  “Where the shadow?”

  “Under the elm.”

  “Right,” I harrumphed. “It seems you have no intention of stopping. Well, I just want it noted that I protest.”

  “How was it stepped?”

  “North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by two, west by one and by one, and so under,” said Holmes.

  “Could we not have a nice dream about unattached debutantes bathing, or something?”

  “What shall he give for it?”

  “All.”

  “Why is it given him?”

  “Faith. Fidelity. Sacrifice. Reward.”

  At last, the strange assembly fell silent. I heaved a sigh of relief. I did not know what should come next and was just beginning to construct a socially acceptable way of asking unbidden dolls to leave one’s bedchamber when they started up again.

  “Whose is it?”

  “Today, the diadem. Tomorrow, the thief.”

  “Oh, good. We’re doing it again, are we?”

  “Whose must it be?”

  “The doctor. The soldier. Governor. Dupe.”

  “And you know what I’ve just realized? My feet are cold. I am not asleep, am I?”

  I was not. Xantharaxes’s powers of prophecy must have been greater than Holmes had imagined. He and the dolls repeated their strange chant five more times, before they at last fel
l silent and dispersed to their respective chambers and waiting six-year-old owners. Happily, I had the presence of mind to fetch pen and ink and put their chant to paper, ere I forgot it.

  Whose is it?

  Today, the diadem. Tomorrow, the thief.

  Whose must it be?

  The doctor. The soldier. Governor. Dupe.

  What was the month?

  A fresh birth in winter.

  Where the sun?

  Over the oak.

  Where the shadow?

  Under the elm.

  How was it stepped?

  North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by two, west by one and by one, and so under.

  What shall he give for it?

  All.

  Why is it given him?

  Faith. Fidelity. Sacrifice. Reward.

  The next morning, I confronted Holmes. He remembered nothing at all, but did complain that his elbows seemed stiff. I showed him the list of questions and answers and asked him what he thought.

  “I think that’s what you get for smoking ancient wizards. Honestly, Watson, if that’s the worst that happens I think you must consider yourself lightly dealt with.”

  “I can’t help but think it means something, Holmes.”

  “Of course it does. All prophecies do. Else they wouldn’t be prophetic, would they? The question is, do they mean anything worthwhile. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they simply foretell that the next salad you order is going to be a bit disappointing. Really, Watson, disregard it.”

  “But… but…”

  “No, let that be an end to it,” Holmes declared. He turned to march away, but stopped suddenly, tilted his head and asked, “Hold on a moment, did you say ‘a fresh birth in winter’?”

  “I did.”

  “I’ve heard that somewhere before.”

  “It’s the only part I’ve been able to figure out, Holmes. It’s the answer to ‘What was the month?’ so it must refer to January—the birth of the new year.”

  “It’s January now, Watson.”

  “Yes. I’d worked that out, too.”

  “But where have I heard that phrase, I wonder?”

  Try as he might, he could not call it to mind. I wasn’t overly surprised. But I was exhausted. Given my late start at slumber and the significant interruption I’d suffered, I was bleary all morning. I elected to take a midday nap.

  “Musgrave,” said a voice in my ear.

  “Er… Now am I having a prophetic dream? Am I asleep?” I wondered.

  “I hope not,” said Holmes, from where he’d leaned in over my bed. “It makes you much harder to speak to. I’ve remembered where I heard that bit, before. Musgrave. Reginald Musgrave.”

  “Who is that?”

  “An old friend of mine, from my school days. Curious lad. His family had this hereditary chant they all had to memorize. The Musgrave Ritual, they called it—none too creatively, I thought.”

  “Does he know what it means?” I asked.

  Holmes shrugged. “We might drive round and ask him, I suppose.”

  * * *

  I was half awake as Holmes bundled me into a cab. I fell asleep for the drive, forcing Holmes to wake me again as he shuffled me onto a train. I slept for half the train ride, too. I think we were nearly at Sussex before my eyes suddenly popped open and I blurted, “Wait a minute! An old school chum?”

  “Yes. Reginald Musgrave.”

  “Holmes, you are over two hundred and fifty years old! Exactly when did you go to school?”

  “It must have been some time after Moriarty abandoned me upon the moor. Nobody wanted to take in an odd-mannered orphan with no family to pay his tuition. Then again, when rumor got about that I’d accidentally turned one or two metal items to gold, a few of England’s more forward-thinking schoolmasters began to feel that an exception might be made.”

  “He’s dead, Holmes. Reginald Musgrave is surely dead.”

  “Well, he wasn’t the last time I saw him.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Oh… er… let’s see… I’m afraid I cannot recall the date, but I remember everybody was quite upset because some round-headed fellow had dissolved a mint.”

  “Eh?” I had to take a few minutes to sleepily parse his meaning. Round-headed? The Roundheads? “Holmes, do you mean Oliver Cromwell dissolving Parliament?”

  “Just so, Watson! You’ve touched it on the nose!”

  “1653. Dead. He’s dead. Someone turn the train around. I want to go home.”

  “Well, I don’t mean to be indelicate, Watson, but… so what if he is? It was a hereditary ritual, after all. His ancestral home, Hurlstone Manor, is one of the oldest houses in Britain. They love that old-tradition sort of stuff. Believe me, somebody there will know about the ritual.”

  I was forced to concede that my friend had a point. At the station, we hired a carriage to drive us out to the track of underachieving hills or slightly bumpy meadows known as Hurlstone Downs. Upon beholding the house, I was ever more sure that Holmes was correct: here was a place where history mattered. Indeed, where history still existed. Though a portion of the home was modern, this was clearly a recent addition that had been cobbled to an existing section, which must have been built one or two centuries before. This, in turn, was an obvious addition to another section, which had been constructed a century or so before that. And so on. And so on. Hurlstone Manor must have been practically a quarter-mile long, beginning in contemporary comfort and ending in a jumble of rock-and-timber ruins that may well have been pre-Druidic. The central portion of the house gave every impression that it had begun service as a motte-and-bailey keep. Indeed, one could still spot the remains of a catapult atop its jagged parapets, which could have had no other purpose than to hurl stones down all over Hurlstone Downs, if ever the owner felt sufficiently threatened.

  Alighting from the carriage, Holmes marched up to the main door and gave the bell-pull a jaunty tug. At first it seemed as if our call would go unanswered, but just as Holmes was about to give a second ring, we heard a bustling behind the door and it swung open. A gentleman in his early forties stood before us, wearing a dressing gown and house slippers. I hardly had time to process my shock at how poorly country butlers were allowed to present themselves, before Holmes crowed, “Why, Reginald Musgrave! As I live and breathe, how long has it been? My, my, look how gray you’ve gotten.”

  “Do I know you, sir?” the gentleman asked.

  “Probably not,” I said, stepping forward to introduce myself. “I am Dr. John Watson; this is my friend, Mr. Warlock Holmes. Some time ago, he was familiar with a Reginald Musgrave, but I would think your youth precludes the possibility it might be you. I would suppose it might be another member of your family with the same first name.”

  “Quite possibly. Ours is an ancient family, ruled by many traditions. The males of this house have only two names: Reginald and Spotsgrave.”

  “Spotsgrave Musgrave?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Reginald, with respectful gravity. “I consider myself fortunate indeed to have inherited the tolerable name. Every Reginald Musgrave does. But then comes the day he has a son and the wretched duty falls to him to curse his newborn babe with the name Spotsgrave Musgrave. Mine is a mixed blessing.”

  “Er… and what if you should have more than one son?” I wondered.

  “A frequent problem, but easily handled. In fact, if they were not away at the moment, I could introduce you to Spotsgrave A, Spotsgrave B and my daughter, Karen. But Mr. Holmes here has some business with my grandfather?”

  “Or his. Or maybe his,” said Holmes, cheerily. “Anyway, one of them asked me to look into that family chant of yours—the Musgrave Ritual—and I never got round to it.”

  Our host gave a cry of disbelief and spluttered, “What? The ritual? Again? Why, it’s hardly to be believed! The damned thing’s been all but forgotten for generations, then suddenly it’s cost me a butler and a housemaid, and brought stra
ngers to my door, all in the same week! Well, you’d better come in then. I’ll have Brunton… oh… well I suppose I’ll make us some tea. This way, gentlemen. Step this way.”

  Reginald Musgrave shuffled off towards his kitchen with Holmes and me in tow. The modern section of the house proved to be quite small—hardly more than a façade and a sitting room. Three steps in, we were back in the Tudor age and by the time we’d reached the kitchen, the earlier Plantagenet style was all around.

  “What a singular home,” I remarked.

  “Hrmph. Singular. It is that,” Reginald grunted. “To be born a Musgrave is to be born the curator of an eclectic museum. Now, where did I lay that damned kettle? Ah! Here we are… People seem to think it’s an impressive thing to be the scion of one of Britain’s oldest houses, but I can’t fathom why. The first son of every Musgrave generation knows he will live, cradle to grave, surrounded by curios and relics. Ancient. Bizarre. Meaningless. All we do is live off the proceeds of hereditary investments and try to keep the house from falling in on itself. We’re not very impressive people, really.”

  He gave an apologetic shrug and gestured to his paunchy, dressing-gown-clad self. His wrinkled clothing and unshaved cheek proclaimed the truth of his words. Yet, there was a charm to Reginald Musgrave—an easygoing friendliness that made me like him. Musgrave filled a perfectly modern tea-strainer, then dropped it into an old clay pot that looked like something Alfred the Great might have lying around the house. He swatted a bit of loose tea off his sleeve and said, “Now Brunton—that’s my missing butler—there’s an impressive fellow! Spoke twelve languages. Played almost any instrument you cared to hand him and played it so sweet you’d cry. Handsome devil, too. That chin! That hair! I’d say he was the terror of the ladies, except they always seemed more excited than afraid. He practically had a queue. Know what his name was? Richard. Isn’t that nice? Isn’t that normal? Richard Brunton—a forceful name, but accessible. Let me tell you, there never was a Spotsgrave Musgrave who could speak that name without envy. Oh, I do hope nothing too terrible has happened to him.”

  “I hope so, too,” said Holmes.

  “When did he go missing?” I asked.