Gaslight Arcanum: Uncanny Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Kim Newman

  “We have dealt with many mysteries which at first appeared to have their explanation in the supernatural — like the case of that wretched hound upon the moors. In the end, all of them proved to have a logical explanation. No, Watson, when it comes to the art of detection, I give no credence to tales of the supernatural. Like the hound, these bothersome little things nip at our heels and send us hurrying down the wrong path of investigation. How unfortunate that our history is riddled with myths, ghost stories, rumors of witches. On the stage of life, they have provided unintentional moments of ‘misdirection’: for as long as our focus is upon such things the real and important matters of human existence will always elude us.

  “Nevertheless,” he continued, “I am eager to pit my skills against the bibliomane who stole this book.”

  “But if the book has indeed fallen into the hands of some as yet unknown collector, it is hardly likely he will part with it. The book might be shelved in any one of a hundred private libraries.”

  “If this enigmatic gathering of paper and ink is indeed a nexus for crime, then its presence cannot remain a secret for very long. I assure you, it will come to light.”

  Hours later, in a boardinghouse in London’s East End, a weary man slumped in the corner of a shabby room and opened the Codex Exsecrabilis. He ran his hand down the blank page and shook at the memory of what he had done to the retired seaman in the next room. He would have to be going soon, he thought, before the body was discovered; but then, that probably would not be until the next morning. He turned the page in the book and began to weep again. He wept at the prospect of killing once more, or perhaps doing far worse; and because he knew he would go on reading - until he had reached the final page of the codex.

  Holmes was mildly surprised when Father Twitchell arrived at Baker Street the next morning. “I knew you wished to speak to me about the missing codex,” said the priest. “I returned from Cambridge early this morning and decided to save you a trip by coming here straightaway.”

  “What can you tell me of this strange book?” asked Holmes.

  “Only what I have read of it in Brother Eduardo’s monograph. Were you aware of the pamphlet?”

  “I would be interested in reading it. Do you know of any book collectors in your parish?”

  Before Father Twitchell could answer, there was a knock at the door: Watson entered the room and quickly introduced himself to the priest, who shook the doctor’s hand vigorously.

  “I confess to being one of your avid readers,” said the priest. “Such marvellous adventures — quite exhilarating.”

  “Excuse me, Father, are there any book collectors among your flock?” asked Holmes.

  “Not that I am aware.” The priest turned to the shelves above Holmes’ desk. “You have some interesting volumes here. Are you a collector of books?”

  “A book is not unlike a soup tureen. Though some may covet it for its shape and pattern, it is only the broth inside that interests me. No, I keep books only to have easy access to the information they record, but I did, however, notice a few rare volumes in your own library. Do you collect books?”

  “Not unlike you; only for what they can tell me.”

  “Is there anyone in your parish in desperate need of money? Someone who might have chanced upon the codex, realized its rarity, and seized upon the opportunity to take it to a bookseller?”

  “A few of my parishioners are indeed poor. But the codex was in my study, and my study is not open to the church. In fact, it is always kept locked.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Even priests need some small bit of privacy, Mr. Holmes. At any rate, I hope that you do not suspect anyone in my congregation.”

  “Not at present. But if I do not soon uncover a substantial lead in this investigation, I will need to start questioning the more needy members of your church.”

  “I am afraid I would not be able to assist you in such an endeavour. Most of what I know was told to me in the privacy of the confessional. I cannot break my vow to protect this confidentiality.”

  “That is admirable, Father, but how far should such a vow extend? Should one protect the identity of a thief?

  “No one in my congregation is guilty of stealing the codex, Mr. Holmes.”

  “The book did not simply vanish into thin air.”

  “You must not underestimate the supernatural power of this book.”

  “Now you are speaking nonsense, Father.”

  “Why is it so hard for you to believe in the supernatural? You have devoted your life and talents to the struggle between good and evil.”

  “The struggle between good and evil is your domain. I apply myself to the scientific study of crime and criminals.”

  “Then let us lay aside any theological bearing on the matter, and simply contemplate a metaphysical universe — a sphere beyond this existence.”

  “Can I see it, or touch it?” asked Holmes sardonically. “Where, pray tell, is this metaphysical world of yours?”

  “It surrounds us. But as long as our focus remains fixed on the affairs of the physical world it remains invisible to our mortal eyes.”

  “Two worlds inhabiting the same space?”

  “Even the materialist admits we simultaneously inhabit two plains of existence. We move about a three-dimensional world even as we are passing through a fourth dimension, that of time.”

  Holmes removed the watch from his vest pocket. “The passage of time I can measure. Show me your measurements of the so-called supernatural world, or do not waste my time.”

  The priest stood and took his hat. “The power of the codex is real, Mr. Holmes. I wish it were not.” He strode to the door. “You would do well to read Brother Eduardo’s monograph.”

  “Thank you, Father. And may I recommend Winwood Reade’s Martyrdom of Man to you?”

  When the priest was gone, Watson threw down his notebook and scowled. “You know, Holmes, at times you really are too much!”

  Holmes spent the better part of the next day in the Reading Room of the British Museum. When Watson met him for lunch at Simpson’s, Holmes laid a thick pamphlet on the doctor’s charger.

  Watson read the title aloud, “A Most Uncommon Prayer Book, Being a History of the Codex Exsecrabilis and a Documentation of its Known Crimes. It looks rather extensive.”

  “The sins of the book, Watson, documented by the friar in shocking detail. The man’s willingness to believe in the absurd is unseemly, but his treatise bears all the hallmarks of serious scholarship.”

  “What a remarkable concept that one should commit a crime for no other reason than because one has read of it in a book.”

  “The idea has interest, for a crime committed in this manner would be without apparent motive, and therefore more difficult to solve.”

  Holmes lit his pipe. “Brother Eduardo links the codex to many of the most sensational crimes of the last several hundred years — all of them supposedly committed during those ‘three or four brief periods’ to which he alluded, when the codex was not in the brotherhood’s possession.” He blew out a tiny cloud of smoke. “Our humble friar attempts to cast a new light on the early eighteenth-century crimes of Jonathan Wild, and I must say, his monograph has me rethinking the poisonous career of Thomas Griffiths Wainwright.”

  “So what is our next move?”

  “Lunch, dear fellow — we can do nothing until another crime is committed.”

  When Watson was awakened by his wife early the next morning, he learned that Holmes had sent a message urging the doctor to meet him at Scotland Yard. Although he had planned on devoting the day to his Kensington practice, Watson had long ago developed a craving for Holmes’ little adventures and was soon in a cab racing toward Victoria Embankment. Upon his arrival, Holmes informed the doctor of an event he hoped would be the key to recovering the missing codex: sometime during the previous morning, a Longbourn bookseller had repeatedly stabbed his wife with a paper knife.

  “Mr. Avery Felton,�
� said Holmes as he and Watson entered the man’s prison cell, “my name is Sherlock Holmes. I am a private consulting detective come to further investigate the circumstances that have brought you to this wretched place. Cooperate with me and I will do all I can to help you.”

  Felton stared at the floor. “I have read of you, Mr. Holmes, but you cannot help me. I killed my wife … stabbed her in the back … as she washed the breakfast dishes! I loved her!” he sobbed. “Why did I do it?”

  “Have you come across a leather-bound manuscript, adorned with an upside-down cross?”

  He shook his head.

  “Are you certain — it is a heavy book, very old, some of its leaves may have been blank.”

  “I would remember such a book. What does it have to do with me?”

  “Where did you go yesterday?”

  “Nowhere, I stayed home.”

  “Then why did you kill your wife, Mr. Felton? Did you have an argument with her?”

  “My head is spinning.”

  “Think, man!”

  “We were having breakfast. Everything was perfect. She left to clean up. I was lounging at the table with the morning post.”

  “Was there anything unusual in the mail?”

  “Just letters from other booksellers.” Felton ran a hand across his face. “Except one which was absolute gibberish.”

  “In what way?”

  “I am not a formally educated man, Mr. Holmes. I am well read, and I understand many things, but I do not speak any foreign languages.”

  “Where would this letter be now?”

  He shrugged. “Still on the table, I suppose.”

  Holmes tossed several torn envelopes and creased sheets of paper upon the table of his sitting room. “These letters are unremarkable. As Felton said, they are simply correspondence from his associates about book-related nonsense.”

  “So we came up empty-handed,” said Watson.

  “Perhaps not.”

  Holmes pulled a magnifying lens from his desk drawer. “The only other scrap of paper in Felton’s place was this blank piece I found upon his kitchen floor. That alone is significant.” He briefly studied the item. “It is, as I first suspected, a very old piece of parchment … a fragment of a much larger leaf … torn off in some haste. The creases confirm that it was folded to fit inside an envelope. Also, there are several tiny water stains, which I believe are noteworthy. Beyond these salient points, it is nothing more than a thin sheet of sheep skin … soaked and stretched, then scraped smooth to remove the hair.” He took a large beaker from the shelf. “Unless I can prove that it was torn from our missing codex.”

  Holmes raised the parchment to the light. “Behold, Watson,” he said, “an invention as important to the dissemination of knowledge in its day as Gutenberg’s first printing press was in the fifteenth century! Proving what Plato wrote about the impetus of need: ‘Necessity, who is the mother of invention’!”

  “How so?” laughed Watson.

  “Parchment was invented in the ancient Greek city of Pergamum,” said Holmes, “where — according to The Book of Revelation — Satan was enthroned.” He crumpled the fragment and dropped it into the beaker. “In the second century B.C. Pergamum established a great library rivaling even that of Alexandria.” He added just enough water to cover the parchment and began stirring the mixture briskly. “Up until then, the collected knowledge of civilization had been transcribed on papyrus, which was produced only along the Nile delta in Alexandria; and which had been over-harvested towards local extinction. Whether due to an inability to supply the material, or a desire to shut down its rival library, Alexandria ceased exporting papyrus.”

  Holmes decanted the water into a test tube. “So Pergamum invented a more than adequate substitute — one much cheaper and easier to produce than papyrus. It remains an excellent example of adaptation under changing circumstances.”

  “Holmes, you amaze me!”

  He waved away the compliment. “I am preparing a monograph on paper and papermaking. It will be an invaluable resource in criminal investigation, and I daresay, had it been available at the time, the Bank Holiday Blackmail Case would have been brought to a far more satisfactory conclusion!”

  Holmes withdrew a vial of white crystals and tossed a few into the test tube. “Parchment allowed the great Library at Pergamum to continue operating — until Mark Antony emptied its shelves and made Cleopatra a wedding present of its 200,000 volumes. She was a conniving woman, Watson.” He removed the stopper from a reagent bottle of clear liquid and inserted a glass pipette.

  “Now, let us see what this torn leaf has to tell us,” said Holmes. “Brother Eduardo insists the codex was written in blood. If at some time there was blood on this scrap of parchment, a sufficient amount of it has been dissolved into this solution. This reagent will precipitate that blood as a brownish sediment.” He added several drops and swirled the test tube.

  “Nothing!” snarled Holmes. “Perfectly clean. So much for legends!”

  “What if the legend is true,” asked Watson, “and all trace of the evil writing has vanished?”

  “Blood does not simply vanish. Some trace would remain, and my hemoglobin test is capable of detecting blood at concentrations of barely one part in a million.” He smoothed out the parchment and blotted it dry. “Either there was no blood on this parchment to begin with, or…”

  Holmes walked to the fireplace and filled his pipe. “How does one prove or disprove the supernatural?” he murmured, dropping into his chair. He took off his shoes and sat cross-legged, smoking his pipe.

  Watson awoke at the call of his name. He had dropped off to sleep with The Times in his lap, while Holmes had been puffing at his pipe and, a while later, quietly puttering about his desk.

  “Watson, would you mind taking care of something for me?” asked Holmes.

  The doctor arose from his chair and stretched. “Run an errand? Yes, of course.”

  “I have written out some instructions for you,” he said, extending a folded sheet. “Please read them and make certain everything is clear.”

  Watson unfolded the sheet, glanced at his friend’s distinctive scrawl, and gasped. He looked down at Holmes sitting calmly at his desk. The detective’s left hand was wrapped with a handkerchief, his jack-knife and a saucer of dark red liquid at his elbow. Upon the blotter lay a Latin dictionary and the doctor’s service revolver.

  Watson dropped the note. His body abruptly stiffened as the most abhorrent idea went racing through his mind. “No!” he cried in genuine terror. A cold sweat broke out over his face, which had gone as white as a sheet. Within seconds he began to shake involuntarily — except for his hands, which he kept tightly clenched by his sides.

  Holmes realized the doctor was struggling hard to control himself: his mouth had become a pale trembling line, his eyes two coals burning with hatred. Holmes glanced at the revolver upon the desk, then quickly returned his gaze to the seething volcano of emotion standing before him. His hand moved toward the gun but Watson sprung upon it like a Bengal tiger, snatching the revolver from the desk.

  Watson pressed the barrel to Holmes’ forehead and gazed into the detective’s widening eyes. “God help me,” he said, squeezing the trigger.

  When the hammer fell Holmes flinched at its sharp click.

  Watson dropped the gun upon the desk and crumpled to the floor where he lay sobbing uncontrollably. Holmes lifted him into a chair and handed him a glass of whiskey.

  “Holmes! How could you?” he cried.

  “My dear friend,” said Holmes, deep concern written upon his features, “please forgive me, but I could turn to no other for such a test. You have a heart that is genuinely good. Fair weather or foul, you are constant in your friendship, and so you have become for me a barometer by which I am able to gauge all that is noble in men.”

  “I wanted to kill you! And I would have, had—”

  “Had the revolver been loaded, but I have far too much respect for your prowe
ss with a gun to—”

  “Did you stop to think I could have bashed in your bloody brains with the butt of it!”

  “That idea,” Holmes said resentfully, “was not written upon the parchment!” He took the empty glass from Watson’s trembling hand and moved to refill it. “Nevertheless,” he said softly, “you are right. It was a dangerous experiment … which might well have proved deadly.” He extended another whiskey to the doctor. “And it was indeed a sin to pull it on my dearest friend.”

  Watson wiped his sweat-soaked face and took the glass. “You might have warned me.”

  “That would have ruined the whole experiment. Besides, you would have refused to read it.”

  Holmes picked up the note where Watson had dropped it. “Astonishing!” he cried. “It is blank again!” He hurried to the microscope to examine the fragment. After a minute he looked up from the eyepiece. “Not a trace of what I wrote — not even an impression made by the pen!”

  Holmes walked to the fireplace, the parchment gripped tightly in his clenched fist. “Now that I know the power of the codex is genuine,” he said angrily, “I want to know why the accursed thing was not destroyed centuries ago? All those despicable crimes could have been prevented!”

  After several minutes, Holmes coolly remarked, “The apostate monk who created the thing … this Brother Moriarty … in many ways, he was a Napoleon of crime. Even now, hundreds of years after his death, he dispatches his orders on these parchment leaves.”

  Holmes gazed at the wrinkled page in his hand. “That miserable bookseller rotting away in jail is a pawn. Whoever mailed this page to him simply wanted to drag a red herring across the trail of my investigation. Whereas it was intended to lead me astray, it has only served to strengthen an earlier suspicion.” He shoved the parchment into the drawer of his desk and locked it. “Watson, are you recovered enough to accompany me to Longbourn?”

  “If the codex was half as dangerous as you claimed, you should have destroyed it when it first came into your possession,” said Holmes.

  “For hundreds of years we Benedictines have devoted ourselves to the preservation of books,” said Brother Eduardo. “The codex is one of a kind. Destroying it would have been a crime.”