by Kim Newman
“But by not destroying it,” said Watson, “you and your brothers are indirectly responsible for far worse crimes.”
“But we have worked hard to keep the book from being read.”
“And yet it has been read,” said Holmes.
“True, there have been two or three times when the codex was not in our possession.”
“I believe there have been many times,” said Holmes. “Your monograph was published over a decade ago. I believe it needs extensive updating. The Whitechapel murders, for instance. Who was reading your book in 1888?”
“The codex did escape that year … for several months,” said the monk, unable to meet Holmes’ gaze. “But we have tried so hard. We have cared for it for centuries.”
“Cared for it?” asked Watson.
“The Brotherhood considers the codex to be a living thing,” said Father Twitchell.
“At first,” said Brother Eduardo, “our order saved the book from the fire because of its rarity. Years later, we made a startling discovery about the nature of the codex. It had developed a form of intelligence.” He paused. “We believe it has a living soul.”
“You are quite mad,” said Holmes.
“It bore the sins which one man poured onto its pages. Now it seeks redemption from those sins.”
“You may leave us now, Friar,” said Holmes.
“Like any soul, it is deserving of redemption,” said Brother Eduardo, walking to the door. “But unlike the man whose sins it now bears, the codex is not human … and therefore, not eligible for the same redemption offered to men.”
“Astonishing,” cried Watson, after the monk had left the room.
“That old man actually views the book as his brother,” said Father Twitchell, “a member of his own order, in fact — which is why the codex accompanies the Brotherhood whenever they travel.”
“This case has given me a headache,” said Holmes, walking to the fireplace. “Father, may I trouble you for some water?”
“Allow me to make you a cup of tea.”
“No, please, water is fine.”
When the priest returned with a glass of water, Holmes thanked him and drained it of all but an inch of liquid. “I have been admiring your fireplace,” he said. “I have never seen a hearth as large as this one. I imagine it is quite ancient.”
“Like the rest of this tower,” said Father Twitchell. “This hearth actually took up the better part of the wall. I had the opening made smaller by bricking up the front edges.”
“And still it is a hearth of enormous dimensions,” said Holmes. “But returning to more important matters, someone in your parish is responsible for mailing a page of the codex to Mr. Avery Felton.”
Holmes crossed over to the priest’s desk and set down the glass. When he withdrew his hand he managed to spill the remainder of the water. “How clumsy of me. I have made a mess of your desk.”
“That is quite all right,” said Father Twitchell, with thinly disguised irritation.
“When I received news that a bookseller had murdered his wife,” said Holmes, “I naturally assumed the codex had come into his possession.”
Father Twitchell nodded, eyeing the spilled water. The desktop, weathered and slightly warped from years of similar abuse, was far from being level, and already the tiny puddle had begun to migrate toward a battered leather volume he had been reading. He glanced about for something to mop up the liquid and, when nothing presented itself, grew visibly agitated. When the water had crept to within half an inch of the book the priest hurriedly snatched it up before it got wet. “What is your point?” he snapped, carefully examining the edges of the volume.
“Father Twitchell,” asked Holmes, “do you have a burden for books as well as for souls?”
“I beg your pardon,” he said, recovering his composure. “It has been a long and trying day. What else did you wish to ask me?”
“Could someone in your parish have wished to divert my investigation?”
“I am not sure.”
“Of course, there is another possible motive: sending that page could have been a plea for help. Tell me, Father, how does one track down a book which, according to Brother Eduardo, does not wish to be found?”
“Where would you go, if you were overburdened by the sins of your past?”
“I might seek a priest,” said Holmes. “One who would hear my confession, or — if my sins were on paper — one who would read them. For I have lately learned that no matter what the consequences, a priest would never divulge my secrets.”
Holmes held out his hand. “It is over, Father. Where is the codex?”
Father Twitchell sprang from behind his desk and charged across the room, shoving Watson on his way.
“Holmes!” the doctor cried. “He’s running into the fire!”
“Quick, Watson! Follow me!” said Holmes, running to the hearth. He leapt over the great blazing log and then whirled about. To his left was a narrow opening in the blocks, barely more than a foot wide, and perfectly hidden from view by the newer bricks.
“Hurry,” cried Watson, now at his friend’s side, “this heat is unbearable!”
Holmes quickly squeezed sideways through the opening, followed by the doctor. They found themselves in a narrow passageway, with the sound of footsteps echoing in the blackness ahead of them.
Watson groped for a match as he and Holmes felt their way down the passage. “The footsteps are fading — he is getting away!”
“I doubt that.”
The two men stumbled upon a wider chamber. They could feel a strong current of cool air blowing past them in the darkness. Watson struck a match, illuminating a large circular room. There were other passageways leading off the chamber, and narrow stone steps that wound up the center of the tower into the shadows above. “Which way did he—?”
“Quiet,” whispered Holmes.
From the gloom above their heads several bits of crumbling mortar suddenly rained down, cascading on the lowest steps. Holmes raced up the stairs with Watson close behind. When he reached the top of the tower, he found the priest standing at the edge of the parapet, clutching the codex and staring down at the street.
“Father Twitchell,” Holmes called gently, “please come away from the edge.”
The priest spun about to face him. “It is too late,” he sobbed. “The things I have done…. I can never forgive myself!” He took a step backward, the codex held tightly to his breast, and plummeted into the darkness below.
The sidewalk and cobbles of Baker Street were littered with shattered glass. Watson could hear it crunching beneath his feet when he stepped down from the carriage. He looked up at the open windows of Holmes’ sitting room, briefly wondering what new eccentricity awaited him, and then hurried up to see his old friend.
Watson immediately felt the breeze upon his face when he opened the door. He strode across the room, past Holmes who was gazing sullenly into the fire, and stood before the two windows overlooking the street. There was no glass or mullions left in the frames. The doctor sighed deeply. “There is a decided draft in this room, Holmes. What on earth have you been up to?”
Mrs. Hudson tapped at the door and then ushered in three monks.
“The thing you seek is upon the table,” Holmes said without rising.
Brother Eduardo hugged the book. “We are greatly indebted to you, Mr. Holmes.”
“What a pity,” said Brother Paolo, “that in offering absolution to a damned soul, Father Twitchell should lose his own.”
“What do you mean?” asked Holmes.
“He committed suicide,” said Brother Eduardo, “for which there is no forgiveness.”
“And why is that?”
“Only God has authority in matters of life and death,” said Brother Eugenio. “In taking his own life, Father Twitchell usurped that authority. He will burn in hell.”
“I believe you are wrong,” said Holmes. “Your faith is founded upon the belief that in a supreme act of benev
olence, God sent His only son to take upon His shoulders the sins of the world, but after His son died for those sins, He was received back to His father.
“Gentlemen,” Holmes continued, “how can you believe anything less in the case of a priest who, led by love, took upon his shoulders the sins of the book, and ultimately died for those sins? Father Twitchell’s suicide was an act of sacrifice. If there is a heaven, I believe you will find him there … waiting for you.”
Holmes motioned to the door. “But these are theological matters, of which I am out of my depth.”
“Perhaps not, Mr. Holmes,” said Brother Eduardo, departing.
“Holmes, is it wise to leave so much power in their hands?” Watson asked after the men had left.
“Most of the pages in the codex were blank once again, the parchment having long ago reverted to its original state: clean and blameless. What does it say in Isaiah? ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.’ I assure you, those leaves were as white as snow. Except for one last section of manuscript, which I sliced out of the binding while slightly averting my eyes, lest I should inadvertently read some of that hellish text. The pages I removed contained the last remaining words of malediction. I took the liberty of burning them shortly before you arrived. It is doubtful the Brotherhood will hazard too close an inspection of that volume; but if they should, they will not notice its thickness diminished by a mere few leaves.”
Holmes turned back to the fireplace. “And I cannot imagine the codex will mind. For it is better to lose a few pages than to lose one’s soul.”
Watson took the chair next to Holmes. “For a man who has just solved an extremely unusual case, you seem rather down. You must not hold yourself responsible for the death of the priest.”
“When Father Twitchell hurled himself from the tower, I plunged with him … into the depths of despair.”
“But why, Holmes?”
“You were planning to ask me how the windows were shattered. No,” Holmes smirked, “it was not one of my little experiments taken flight. When I burned that remaining evil signature an astonishing phenomenon occurred.” He closed the collar of his dressing gown and hugged himself. “A black plume billowed from the fireplace. It was not smoke, but rather something more solid, something slick and oily in appearance. It behaved like a giant snake. I now wonder if it was not similar to the material referred to among spiritualists as ectoplasm.”
“That’s incredible!”
“Yes, but I have had the misfortune of seeing it.”
Holmes walked to one of the shattered windows. Below him, Baker Street clattered and hummed with the activities of London life; a confusion of men and women, carriages and horses, all bustling to and fro across the soot-grey cobbles. “The damned thing bifurcated before exiting through these closed windows.”
“You’ve grown pale,” said Watson.
“I have a strong constitution, but I admit the sight of it has unnerved me.”
“You have clearly had a shocking experience. Come and sit down. I will ask Mrs. Hudson to bring up some breakfast.”
“Not just yet. There is something I wish to say first.”
Holmes went back to the fireplace and dropped into his armchair. “A significant part of me plunged with that accursed tome … and was dashed against the pavement below: a bit of my philosophy, perhaps; certainly my spirits. Remember the horrible depression through which I suffered in the Spring of ‘87?”
“We came through it.”
“I feel there are even blacker depths waiting to engulf me now. Which is why I am going away.”
“Going away, Holmes?”
“These last few days I have witnessed many strange things — otherworldly phenomena which I cannot explain.” He shuddered. “I have come to realize there is a significant tear in my logic. I must set myself to mending this tear before the entire fabric of my reason is rent asunder. To accomplish this I need time to think. I need a change of scenery; as cozy and as safe as they are, I feel the need to temporarily escape the confines of these rooms.”
“But where will you go?”
“The Continent,” said Holmes, gazing at the mezzotint hanging above the mantel: a reproduction of the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland. He seemed to lapse into deep thought.
“Perhaps Tibet,” he said at length, “to visit the Dalai Lama.”
“But what of your work?”
“I have always felt it my duty to use my unusual talents for the public good, and in all the years you have known me, and before then, I have never forsaken that responsibility. But now…” He shrugged. “I am in need of a very long holiday.”
“And what of all the people who have come to rely upon you? What will I tell them when they come calling and learn that their champion has disappeared, leaving them with no one to whom they can turn? That you are on holiday? Sightseeing? They will never understand.”
“Tell them whatever you wish.” Holmes grunted. “Tell them I am dead, for all I care.”
“I am not very good at fabricating lies!”
“Come now, Watson!” laughed Holmes. “You underestimate your abilities as a fabulist. You have yet to chronicle a single case of mine where you have not played fast and loose with the facts.”
The following day, after leaving Victoria Station where he had seen Holmes off to the Continent, Watson returned to Baker Street to contemplate those empty rooms. Later, while a glazier set about repairing the shattered windows, Watson sat at his friend’s desk and started writing what he felt might very well be the last story in which he would ever record the singular gifts that had distinguished the best and wisest man he had ever known.
* * * * *
TOM ENGLISH is an environmental chemist for a US defense contractor. As therapy he runs Dead Letter Press and writes curious tales of the supernatural. His recent fiction can be found in the anthology Dead Souls (edited by Mark Deniz for Morrigan Books) and issues of All Hallows (The Journal of the Ghost Story Society). He also edited Bound for Evil, a 2008 Shirley Jackson Award finalist for Best Anthology, featuring stories about strange, often deadly books. Tom resides with his wife, Wilma, and their Sheltie, Misty, deep in the woods of New Kent, Virginia.
“The Color That Came To Chiswick” by William Meikle
Illustration by Luke Eidenschink
The Color That Came To Chiswick
by William Meikle
I hoped that my friend Sherlock Holmes would be more settled when I called on him that evening in May of ‘87. His recovery from his travails in France, and the subsequent excitement in Reigate, meant that a period of house rest was prescribed. As ever, he paid little attention to my ministrations and pleadings, and over the course of the previous fortnight had driven poor Mrs. Hudson to despair with a series of petty requests.
On my last visit she had pleaded with me to do my best to calm my patient. Indeed, she had worked herself into such a state that I do believe had any longer time passed it would have been her, and not Holmes, who would be coming under my ministrations.
It was Holmes himself who greeted me as I entered the house in Baker Street.
“Come in Doctor Watson,” he said in a near perfect impression of Mrs. Hudson’s Scots brogue. “You’ll be wanting some tea?”
He laughed, and fair bounded up the stairs to his apartment. I had not seen him in such good humour for several months.
I discovered why on entering his rooms … he had a new case. Several sheaves of paper lay scattered on his desk, his brass microscope was in use off to one side, and a glass retort bubbled and seethed above a paraffin burner. An acrid odor hung in the air, thick, almost chewable. The whole place reeked of it, despite the fact that the windows were all open to their fullest extent.
Holmes noticed my discomfort.
“It is nothing,” he said.
“I doubt Mrs. Hudson will agree,” I said.
“Do not worry Watson,” Holmes said. “Our esteemed landlady has gone to Earls Cour
t with the widow Murray.”
“The Wild West show? Yes, I have seen the posters around town. It is said it will be a great spectacle.”
I had wished to inquire as to Holmes’ opinion on the authenticity of Mr. Cody’s show, but it was obvious that his mind was already elsewhere. He stood over the microscope, studying the slide contents intently.
“What have you got there Holmes?”
In answer he passed me a sheet of paper.
“This came in several hours ago.”
It was a note on letter-headed paper, from the Fullers Brewery in Chiswick, and addressed to Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective at this Baker Street address. The note proved to be short and to the point.
“Dear Mr. Holmes,” it began. “In the past three days we have encountered several problems with our brewing processes in our main Tuns. We suspect sabotage, but are unable to prove the cause, and our own chemists have drawn a blank. I have sent a sample from our latest fermentation, and would appreciate some of your time in its study. I shall be happy to discuss your remuneration by return of post.”
It was signed, Gerard Jones, Chief Brewer.
“Examine the paper,” Holmes said. “There is something peculiar on the left edge near the bottom.”
I immediately saw what he meant. The edge seemed bevelled and on closer examination proved to have a greenish tinge.
“What is it Holmes? Some form of algal growth perhaps?”
“That is what I am trying to determine,” Holmes replied. “But so far I am having little success.”
He motioned me towards a jar that had been partially hidden behind the microscope.
“The sample mentioned within the letter is there. See what you make of it Watson.”
As soon as I picked up the jar I knew I had never seen anything like it before.
The jar held a pint of fluid but it did not look like anything resembling any fermentation of ale I had ever seen. As I held it up towards my face the contents shifted and the acrid odor grew so strong that I almost gagged as it caught at the back of my throat. The fluid was thick, almost solid, and a deep emerald green. It flowed, as if the whole thing were a single organism.
