Sherlock Holmes 01: The Breath of God

by Guy Adams

  “One can imagine.” We seemed to be in real danger of forgetting the purpose of my visit so I reminded him. “You said you were expecting me?”

  “Indeed.” Newman gestured for me to follow him behind the desk and out through the door he had just entered from. “One of our authors, a particularly knowledgeable fellow, wished to make your acquaintance,” he explained. “There were, however, some unusual requirements that he wished us to assist him with.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yes,” Newman said, “and we do so like to be of service to our authors.”

  The corridor we were walking down appeared to be becoming darker and darker the further we moved along it. Navigating the offices of New Man Publishing was an act similar to potholing, for all its apparent modesty, the place was labyrinthine, dark and treacherous underfoot.

  “Oh do mind those,” Newman said as I tripped over a small pile of fur-lined volumes, “they are bound in goat hide and quite slippery.”

  I managed to avoid asking why a book should be bound as if for cold weather. In truth, as a man who has frequently had to peruse the most bizarre esoteric volumes in the line of his work, goat’s fur was one of the most wholesome binding materials I have come across.

  He led me to a small room at the end of the corridor and opened the door onto pitch blackness. “Please sir,” he said, “if you can tolerate the informality I would ask that you take my hand. I fear there is no other way to lead you safely.”

  I did as asked and was led, blind, into the room. I could see nothing of my surroundings though I could smell the dusty pages of old books and leather covers, a scent that had been omnipresent though it was much stronger here. Newman moved in a precise manner, like a man learning a complicated dance. I could hear him counting under his breath, so many steps forward, so many steps to the left, then so many to the right. It was quite the most bizarre experience.

  “This is our most precious storeroom,” Newman explained, “some of the volumes here are so ancient that the merest touch of sunlight on their pages would likely send them to dust.”

  “How then can you read them?” I asked.

  Newman chuckled. “Nobody would want to read these books, sir,” he replied, “they’re far too dangerous.”

  He halted, turned and sat me down carefully in a small, wooden chair.

  “If you could just stay there, sir,” he said, “our author will be with you shortly. I would ask that you don’t try and navigate the storeroom independently, I couldn’t be held responsible for the accidents that would naturally occur.”

  With that, either a polite threat or a just another piece of nonsense, he retreated into the darkness and I was left to wait.

  While I sat there I endeavoured to sense as much as possible from my surroundings. I have already mentioned the smell of old books, but there were other clues too. There was the smell of something green, a sweet, evergreen scent. After a few moments, being reminded pointedly of graveyards, I realised it was the smell of yew trees. The other smell was less natural: old copper, turned verdigris over time. The sharp smell of old garden ornaments, of public monuments in the rain. Quite what it could be doing in such an environment was beyond me. Though perhaps my senses were beginning to cheat as I could also swear to movement in the room, the sound of tiny feet, such as an animal might make in forest undergrowth, the snuffling of a creature on the scent of its next meal. Perhaps there were rats in the storeroom, I’m sure the proprietor would never have known. At one point I even felt a cool breeze on my cheeks, as if someone had opened a door or window to the outside, after a moment the air was gone and I was plunged once more into the heavy atmosphere of dusty books.

  “Mr Carnacki?” a voice asked. I placed it as several feet ahead of me, far enough away to be muffled by the presence of an obstacle between us, likely bookshelves. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me in such unconventional circumstances.” The voice was not just muffled by the clutter of the room. The speaker was disguising the tone in some way, it had that hollowed-out quality of a voice channelled through a speaking trumpet.

  “At the time I wasn’t aware that the circumstances would be so unconventional,” I replied, “though you’ve certainly caught my attention.”

  “That is good,” said the voice, “as that is certainly our goal. Tell me,” he continued, “what do you know of the Breath of God?”

  “I believe it’s mentioned in some of the more questionable apocrypha?” I replied. “A variation on the wrath of God. Some books claim it is a tornado made from the spirits of the dead. Not much, though,” I admitted eventually. “It’s a reference I’m familiar with, a theological curiosity.”

  “It is much more than that,” said the voice, “it is a genuine phenomenon, a force that is on the brink of being released into this world.”

  Claims of this sort were unlikely to move me. After all, ancient evils poised to return were something of an occupational cliché. “Is that so?” I replied. “Well, I’m happy to look into it but I’m rather busy at the moment so I can’t promise that...”

  “Do please hush, Mr Carnacki,” said the voice. “I wouldn’t be talking to you unless matters were a good deal more definite than that. I know a great deal about you and would hardly be wasting my or your time on a vague possibility.”

  “For someone who claims to know a great deal about me,” I replied tersely, “you appear ignorant of the fact that if there’s one thing I hate, it’s being interrupted.”

  “Apologies, but time is precious to both of us and I sought to save some of it.”

  “Very well,” I said, “then please continue.”

  “You will no doubt have heard of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.” The voice was so confident of the fact – and rightly so – that it didn’t give me time to reply. “There are certain forces within that organisation that are determined not only to break away from the main body of membership, but also to bring about changes to our society that would be disastrous. It has always been an unfortunate truth that people, when faced with the potential for power, often lose what altruistic intentions they may previously have had in order to fulfil their own selfish ambitions. This is the case here, and while a number of powerful and influential members are determined to stop them, this breakaway group is close to fulfilling their lunatic goal. They will let nothing stand in their way, Mr Carnacki, nothing and no one. You will have heard of the death of Hilary De Montfort?”

  “Indeed.”

  “That is their first strike, it will not be their last. They seek to kill every member who opposes them, until there is nobody left with the skills to stop them.”

  “And what has this to do with me?”

  “I cannot be seen to act, I wish to employ you as my agent in the matter. If your reputation is even half-earned, you have the skills and tenacity that may yet see this situation nipped in the bud.”

  “I can assure you my reputation is wholly earned. However, yours is nonexistent and yet you’re asking me to place rather a lot of trust in you.”

  “I’m asking you nothing of the sort. You can’t take the risk that I’m wrong and once you begin investigating I have every faith that you will learn enough to convince you. I need give you only three names: Lord Ruthvney, Sherlock Holmes and Aleister Crowley. From there you’re on your own.”

  With that, the sensation of cool air returned, this time I could have sworn it brought with it the scent of the ocean, that hint of salt and seaweed. When it vanished again, leaving me with that ever-present stench of ageing paper, I knew that the speaker had gone. You will notice that I do not say I was left alone because that would have been far from the truth. I had sensed creatures in the darkness before, you will remember that I described the sound of their feet, the snuffling of their breath as they picked out scents amongst the shelves. They seemed to return in quantity now as a noise that I had first thought to be trickling water clarified itself as the scurry of hundreds of tiny feet.

  “Newm
an?” I shouted. “Newman!”

  There was no reply and I decided that I was damned if I was going to sit and wait, and perhaps be a generous supper for the rats, or whatever they might be.

  I got to my feet and deciding not to strike a match for fear of what the light might attract, tried to remember the direction in which I had first been led. Slowly, shuffling my feet rather than taking large steps, I began to work my way back the way I felt I had come. It was only a few moments before I came into direct collision with a bookcase. Cursing, I held out my hands and felt my way along it, moving quicker while I had the wooden shelves to guide me. Even then there were piles of books on the floor and frequently I sent them crashing, slipping and tripping over them as I tried to work my way past.

  I continued to call for Newman as I walked, undecided as to whether he was deaf or seeking to make life unpleasant for me. He had seemed pleasant enough but the whole business had soured so far that I was no longer inclined to give anyone the benefit of the doubt. It was a contradiction, if these people wanted me to investigate matters then why were they acting as if they themselves were the aggressors? It takes more than the dark to scare me, however, and I continued to make my way as quickly and safely as I could.

  It was not just rats that moved in that darkness. I heard something running between the rows. It had bare feet, there was a slapping on the stone floor that could only come from skin rather than shoe leather. I had been calling for Newman, even though I was now quite convinced he would not respond. Still the sound had helped to guide me as I judged the way it bounced back at me from the far wall that must contain the door I had entered by. Now I no longer wished to draw such attention to myself.

  I moved as silently as I could, keeping close to the book cases, feeling my way along them in the direction I felt sure led to the exit.

  Whatever else that shared that storeroom with me seemed to have much less problem seeing, or certainly it had less fear of hurting itself as it ran up and down the rows. Sometimes it sounded like it might be climbing the shelves, as I heard its percussive grunts rising and the toppling of books spilled by its naked feet as it scaled towards the roof. What could it want in there but me? But why would these people unleash something dangerous on me? If they had wanted me dead then surely they had had ample opportunity to kill me. But perhaps this was not the work of Newman or his secretive author, perhaps this was a foot soldier for the opposition, a creature of those darker forces within the Golden Dawn. Perhaps my faceless informant lay somewhere here, amongst the pages of these forgotten volumes, dead because he had dared to take a stand against them.

  These were the thoughts that followed me as I made my way towards the door and the freedom that I hoped lay beyond it.

  Behind me the creature was drawing closer. Its breathing sharp but regular as it ran faster and faster towards me. I could tell from the way the noise was dampened and muted then loud and echoing that it was zigzagging up and down the rows. Why it should take such a circuitous route was beyond me. Perhaps, rather than simply running directly to me it wanted to scare me first, build up the tension, force me to crack... It was close to succeeding. Slap, slap, slap came its feet on the concrete floor, ever louder with each passing second. I pride myself on being a man of considerable nerve and yet being cut off like this, disorientated by the loss of one sense and the resultant heightening of the others, I was close to breaking. It was all I could do not to run, panicked, into the darkness.

  Nonetheless I moved as fast I could, taking long, careful strides until – with almost a cry of relief – I found myself at the far wall. My hands touched the cool plaster and skimmed along it, hoping to meet the door frame. Behind me the feet cleared the end of a row of shelves, the noise echoing around the end of the storeroom. My fingers met the edge of the door frame just as I became aware that the creature behind me was not re-entering the row of bookshelves, rather it was running straight towards me.

  I snatched for the door handle as the sound of its bare feet grew so close I could hardly believe it hadn’t reached me.

  It only occurred to me to worry about the door being locked a fraction of a second before I opened it, stepped through and slammed it shut behind me. The weight of the creature hit the solid wood and nearly rebounded me from it. I grabbed the handle and threw my weight back, holding the door closed even as the creature continued to pound against it from the other side. My hands were sweating and threatened to slip from the handle.

  I was just preparing for the fact that soon it would manage to tear the door from my weak grip when finally it gave up. Pressing my ear to the wood I could just hear its naked feet running away from the door, retreating deeper into the storeroom.

  Perhaps it knew of another way out?

  I ran along the narrow corridor between the storeroom and the front office, frequently checking over my shoulder in case the creature had doubled back and was now on my tail. As I reached the door to the office I came crashing to a halt. Something was pushed against it from the other side, keeping it closed. I dropped my shoulder to the wood and charged at it, sending the heavy weight on the other side sliding along a few inches with every shove. Soon the space was wide enough for me to slip past. I clambered around the jamb of the door and stumbled into the front office, toppling over the weight that had kept the door closed. It was the body of Algernon Newman.

  I moved to check his pulse, though it was clear from his terrified face that he was dead and had not gained the condition comfortably. As I pressed against the small man’s body it made the most hideous crinkling noise. His stomach, bloated beyond its previous condition, sank beneath my fingers with the slow, crumpled sound of a cheap mattress. From Newman’s lips a couple of compressed pieces of paper tumbled: pages, torn from books, screwed up and then forced past that absurd beard and into the poor man’s mouth. He was full of paper, fit to burst with the pages from his own precious books.

  Disgusted, I got to my feet and ran from that man’s offices, back into the cool air of a Bloomsbury afternoon.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EMERGENCY STOP

  I need hardly say that Carnacki’s tale had captured all our attentions. Even Holmes, a man not disposed towards the pleasures of an eerie tale told by firelight, had listened intently after his initial, aggressively rebutted, interruption. Of course, in Holmes’ case, I had little doubt that his analytical mind had been attempting to explain away every apparently supernatural element to Carnacki’s story, beating each and every moment of terror with a stick of logic. Perhaps he was right to do so. Certainly, before tonight, I would have done the same.

  Now, however, my faith in the logical and rational had been almost entirely stripped away. I no longer knew what I could believe in, and I can honestly say that that, in itself, was one of the most terrible experiences of my life. We are quite unaware how much we rely on our fragile prisons of belief, whether those prisons are forged of Gods, science, or elements of both, they are what protect us and they are also the filter through which we experience life. We read a tragic story in the newspaper, we see a child die, we hear the sabre-rattling of war... all these things are factored and related to via our beliefs. And without that simple structure, that rigidity, that arrogant assumption that we understand the world and our place in it... well, without that, we are utterly exposed.

  “Of course,” said Carnacki, “once I was back beneath the hazy sun of a London afternoon I began to wonder just what it had all meant. It seemed to me that a great deal of effort had gone into unnerving me. In itself this was not unusual in matters where the supernatural plays a hand. In fact, as you are no doubt aware, Dr Silence, many manifestations of a supernatural nature rely on the fear they create in others in order to survive. It is that mental energy that makes them strong. Still, I wondered what the purpose of it all had been, and whether my mysterious informant was victim or perpetrator.

  “Settling my nerves with a brandy in the Fitzroy Tavern just off Great Russell Street, I came to
the conclusion that, whatever the ultimate intent behind that afternoon’s horror show, I had little choice but to make an investigation into the small amount that I had been told. I made an anonymous phone call to the police to inform them of Newman’s demise (having no wish to find myself sat in front of an interview desk all afternoon) and returned to the British Museum in order to make some more notes on the so-called Breath of God. I didn’t learn a great deal more than I had already known, it seemed to me to be a general catch-all for those more imaginative religious authors wanting to put the shivers into their readers.

  “We are all only too familiar, I am sure, of the distinct shift in holy attitude throughout the books of the Bible. God grows from being a vengeful, almost sadistic creature, to one of beneficence with an almost infinite capacity for forgiveness. The Breath of God seemed to me to be a creation distinctly intended to bring to mind the terrifying patriarch of the former attitude. An invisible force unleashed upon God’s enemies and capable of the most terrible destruction imaginable. These theologians do so like to keep their audience scared.”

  “Fear keeps the churches full,” agreed Silence.

  “And, with respect, keeps you employed,” added Holmes. “If people weren’t scared of the darker potential of the spirit, they would hardly be in need of your services, would they?”

  Neither Silence nor Carnacki deigned to reply.

  Carnacki continued his story as if Holmes had not spoken: “But then if the Breath of God is was what killed De Montfort then clearly it was not something to be taken lightly. And from examining the medical report it would seem that the police are at a loss for a more conventional explanation.”

  “How on earth did you get to read that?” I asked.

  “Oh,” Carnacki replied, “the surgeon, Cuthbert Wells, is a friend of mine.”

  I glanced at Holmes who merely smiled.

  “In fact it was Wells that put me in touch with a young Inspector Mann who I believe you met recently?”