by Barry Day
“Hello, what’s this?”
Holmes separated something from the ruin and held it up. It was a cluster of stems bound together and, as Holmes held them up to the gaslight I could see a glint of gold. The were tied with several strands of blonde hair!
Next to me there was the sound of Irene Adler catching her breath. We had all been so fixated by the desecrated flowers lying in a pool of light, for all the world as though they were playing a star’s role—as, indeed, they were—that we had failed for the moment to observe something else.
On the mirror, scrawled in one of Irene’s grease pencils, were the words—
SOON, MY SENTA—SOON!
The sight of them seemed to galvanise Holmes.
“Stay here, both of you!” he snapped and was out of the door in an instant. I drew Irene gently to the doorway of her dressing room and away from the carnage on the table. From there we could see Holmes hurry up one side of the corridor and back down the other, opening dressing room doors and finding them empty.
He passed us and approached the blank wall at the end of it and began tapping it all over. Even standing some feet away, I could tell by the sound that it was solid. There were no hidden doors or passages there.
“Do you know, Holmes,” I said, as he walked slowly back towards us, “this reminds me of that bizarre business at the Paris Opera round the time you and I first met …”
“You mean the so-called ‘Phantom of the Opera’?” he replied. “But, if I remember correctly, that gentleman’s ambition was to promote the career of his chosen singer. In view of tonight’s evidence, I don’t think we can assume that our phantom presently harbours similar ambitions.”
“But what does the message mean? That’s the first time he’s left one, surely?”
Irene nodded and pulled her wrap more tightly around her.
“He’s calling me by the name of the character I play in The Flying Dutchman. Senta is the young girl who goes off with him at the end.” A thought suddenly struck her and she shivered, even though the corridor was not cold. “And they both drown in each other’s arms. He’s saying he will be back for me.”
Chapter Six
“The man believes in symbols and portents. While he may still be able intellectually to distinguish between fiction and reality, he is happiest creating his own universe in which he rules. Moreover, he finds it easy to adapt coincidence to his own ends …”
“For example …?”
“He could not have known that Irene Adler would return to London, but once she did, he chooses to believe that in some way he has made it happen. He could not have arranged for Covent Garden to stage The Flying Dutchman, but now they have, he equates himself with the Flying Dutchman, cursed by society and forced to roam restlessly until he can find safe harbour. But there is one important difference …”
“Which is …?”
“He does not see himself as a helpless victim. Rather, he pictures himself as an avenging angel, superior to everyone else, sent here on some divine mission of retribution. It is that conviction which makes him even more dangerous, Watson.”
Holmes sank back in his chair. We were in Baker Street and I don’t know about Holmes but I had passed a fitful night after we had delivered Irene into the safe keeping of Mrs. Hudson’s friend with a strict injunction not to move out of the immediate vicinity until we sent word or came to fetch her. From the mutinous expression on her face I was sure of two things. The lady had completely recovered her composure and was now extremely angry at the circumstances that had brought her to this pass. Second, I was by no means as sure as my friend seemed to be that someone as headstrong as she could be relied upon to take orders from anyone but I kept my council.
“And you think this fellow Cain is our man?”
“Every instinct tells me so, old fellow, but I have not a shred of proof in my hands. Here—see for yourself …” and he handed me the bulky scrapbook he had at his feet.
It was one of the ‘C’ volumes and a slip of paper marked his place. As I began turning the pages, he began to fill his filthy old pipe with the plugs of tobacco he had carefully arranged on the mantlepiece from the previous day—possibly from several previous days. But on that I chose not to dwell.
CADWALLADER, Edward—the Chelsea swindler. Holmes had trapped him by coating a document with a distinctive cayenne pepper mixture, which had adhered to his cufflinks …
CAESAR, Julius … an article on obscure Roman crimes, paying special attention to genocide …
Ah, yes, here it was—
CAIN, Janus … High Priest of the Church of the New Apocalypse … etc., etc. The gist of the piece, taken from the gossip columns of one of the popular papers of the day, was that the charismatic Mr. Cain had recently appeared on the London scene, apparently out of thin air, although there was some unsupported speculation about his having previously been somewhere on the Continent. His Church of the New Apocalypse claimed to be a new and fundamental reinterpretation of Holy Writ. The writer—a woman—seemed to find the reek of fire and brimstone positively exciting. In fact, the whole piece resembled nothing so much as a cross between a theatre review for a melodrama and a fashion show. Much was made of Cain’s exotic garb and appearance. The man was clearly every bit as much a social as a religious phenomenon.
“The man’s nothing more than a damned matinée idol,” I grunted, handing the volume back to Holmes. “In fact, now I come to recall, when I was playing billiards at the club with my friend, Thurston, he mentioned that his wife and several of her friends had been to some big ‘rally’—if that’s the word—he was holding at the Albert Hall, of all places. The Prince Consort must be turning his his grave but the ladies were, apparently, ecstatic and threatened to go to the next one, too …”
I don’t know if Holmes had heard a single word I’d been saying. He quite often drifts off into a world of his own and I suspect this was one of those times.
“Daintry-Cain … Cain-Daintry … Janus … two faces pointing in opposite directions … good and evil … and he believes he has been born again as a reincarnation of Jesus Christ?”
Holmes turned in my direction and his deep-set eyes were burning with their own messianic zeal.
“Fascinating, old fellow, fascinating. For the first time since the departure of the late lamented Professor Moriarty, we have an opponent worthy of our mettle—or, in a sense, two, for I have no doubt that Cain—Daintry … call him what you will—now genuinely believes that whatever he does is at the direct behest of that vengeful God of the Old Testament. A fanatic with right on his side may have the strength of ten.”
“But where does Irene fit into his vision?”
Holmes leaned even further back into his armchair and steepled his fingers before his face—a habit that denoted serious thought.
“As I have often remarked, Watson, the fair sex is your department but if I were to venture a guess …”
“Yes?”
“… Daintry was clearly smitten with her in his previous incarnation, if I may so call it, and interest soon turned to obsession—as I’m told may often happen. Her vehement rejection of his tentative approaches then created an ambiguous reaction in him. I do not say that it drove him to murder those women but it may well have caused his feelings toward the sex to reach a point of crisis that then expressed itself in cathartic violence.
“Irene Adler became for him …”
“The woman?” I interjected, before I realised just what I had said.
Holmes gave me a quizzical look but I sensed he realised I had not intended a jibe of any kind.
“Just so, Watson—the woman. The one woman he could not have but must have. The years go by and, suddenly, she enters his new life, still without knowing who he is. What else is he to think but that they are intended for one another in some mystical sense—preordained? But now he is no longer Daintry alone but also Cain, she has, I suspect, taken on another role in his dementia. She is now someone he both loves and fears—s
ome sort of …”
“High Priestess? ‘She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed’?”
I had not read my Rider Haggard for nothing.
“Something of the sort,” Holmes replied, having clearly missed the reference. “She belongs at his side, whether she is Irene, Violetta, Senta—or whoever. The fact of her own multiple identities may well be feeding his delusions. They are both immortals, capable of constant renewal while the rest of us poor mortals …”
“But what now, Holmes?”
“That, I fancy, is what brother Mycroft is here to discuss.”
In my concentration on my friend’s speculations, I had not attended to the ring at the door, nor had I heard the tread ascending our seventeen stairs. The latter omission was entirely excusable, since Mycroft Holmes was remarkably light on his feet, as large men often are. Now he was virtually filling our sitting room which, under normal circumstances, I had never considered particularly small.
After the usual brief pleasantries had been exchanged, he turned to the matter at hand.
“There are some red faces in the corridors of Whitehall this morning, gentlemen, as you may well imagine.”
“A more becoming colour, nonetheless, than the two grey ones lying in the mortuary,” replied Holmes sardonically.
“Indeed, indeed.” Mycroft would have looked uncomfortable, had he known how. “There is a sense that, in some small way, bureaucracy may have contributed to the deaths of these unfortunate people. I have been instructed that I—we—must take personal care of the third party.”
“Cyril Overton?” I queried.
“The distinguished Master of Magdalen …”
“If the Master of that particular college may be so described,” said Holmes. I had never been able to winkle out of him the name of his own alma mater, though his incredible intellectual arrogance made me strongly suspect Balliol.
Mycroft—whom I knew to be a Christ Church man—ignored the remark.
“Unfortunately, I can get no sense out of the man. His confounded Winter Banquet is to be held tomorrow night and apparently the academic mind is only capable of concentrating on one task at a time. Consequently, I have arranged for the three of us to travel up to Oxford tomorrow afternoon on the 3:45 train from Paddington and stay in college overnight. I trust that will not inconvenience either of you too much. I’m told they keep a very fair table and we shall, naturally, be seated on the High Table with the Master and his guests …”
“Who are?” from Holmes.
“Now, there works the hand of coincidence, my dear Sherlock. There are two, to be precise. One is our eloquent companion from last night who was, in his day, it appears, a distinguished scholar there. A double first in classics, no less. Legend has it that he was so brilliant in translating a passage from the Greek version of the New Testament during his viva voce examination that the examiners stopped him part way through. To which Wilde replied—‘Oh, do let me go on. I want to see how it ends.’
“The other is …”
“Mr. Janus Cain.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow a millimetre or so in lieu of a question.
“I would have been surprised, under the circumstances, if it had been anyone else,” said Holmes, and then proceeded to tell Mycroft the events of the previous evening and our deductions. I say ‘our’, since Holmes has frequently remarked that it is by relating the events of a case to me that he is enabled to see the connections which lead to a solution and, if I am able to fulfil such a valuable function in the deductive process, who am I …?
“So the man is taunting us and defying us to stop him from completing his purpose?” Mycroft said ruminatively, when Holmes had finished his narrative.
“Only in part. To do that he could have hidden in the shadows and struck silently. There need have been no Janus Cain. No, I very much fear that these revenge killings are only the settling of old scores, a species of entracte to the main performance …”
“But what is the main performance, as you call it?” I butted in. “Fellow arrives looking and acting like—well, like You-Know-Who …” With my upbringing I have never found it easy, like some people, to take the name of the Lord in vain. “He sets up some tin-pot church and has lots of foolish middle-aged women swooning over him. No crime in that, as far as I can see. If there was, half the actors in London would be behind bars.”
I sat back, rather pleased with what seemed to me to be a pithy summary of the situation. I have to say that there are times when Holmes can over-complicate things. Wood for trees and all that.
“Money?” Holmes looked at his brother.
“Not as far as we can ascertain. Frankly, that was my first thought, that the man was engaged in some sort of confidence trick to get people to invest in the promise of a featherbedded Life-to-Come. However, I am informed that, not only does Cain not solicit donations to this ‘church’ of his, but he absolutely refuses them.”
Holmes was silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“But then Daintry, if I recall, was a man of some considerable wealth and your friends …”—he looked at Mycroft—“were kind enough to let him transfer it out of the country when …”
“Yes, I believe I did hear something to that effect …” Mycroft looked as though the conversation was taking a turn he would rather avoid.
“So,” Holmes continued, “seven years of sensible—perhaps brilliant—investment would leave the investor quite independent financially. But the question remains—to do what? Perhaps Watson here will be able to tell us …”
“Me? But I’ve never even met the fellow. How can I …?”
“No, old fellow, but you are about to.” He reached a long arm down the side of his chair and fished out a crumpled morning paper, folded so that a display advertisement immediately caught the eye. He skimmed it in my direction. I caught it and read—
RECLAIM YOUR SOUL!
Brothers and Sisters, are you in torment?
Do you fear the Divine Retribution to come?
There is a way to be saved …
It went on in this way for several more lurid lines of what was, frankly, poppycock. If I remember, hellfire and damnation were invoked more than once. Then it meandered to the point.
There was to be a rally of the Church of the New Apocalypse that evening at a hall in West London. All were welcome. The High Priest, Mr. Janus Cain would cleanse all those sinners who truly believed … etc.
“Holmes,” I expostulated, “do you seriously expect …?”
Holmes fixed me with a glacial stare.
“My dear Watson, I have been meaning, as a friend, to point out to you that your soul is beginning to look distinctly grubby. This may be the very answer …”
And then even he could not hold back a burst of that explosive silent laughter of his, which would frighten any number of maiden ladies in seaside resorts. Even Mycroft permitted himself something approaching a smirk.
“But, Holmes,” I said, when he had sufficiently recovered himself, “I haven’t been inside a church since the last time I was married.”
“Nor will you this time, old fellow,” he replied. “I think you will find that the Gospel According to Cain owes rather more to Bamum than to Matthew.”
Then, as he saw Mycroft heave himself to his feet … “But, Mycroft, you have yet to tell us about the irresistible force meeting the immovable object …”
“Ah, yes, the clash of mighty opposites. It was not without interest. Unfortunately, no sooner had I taken our friend into the main room that I was forced to leave him there while I attended to some important government business that had unexpectedly arisen …”
“Late at night?” Holmes interjected laconically.
Mycroft ignored the interruption.
“I am told on reliable authority that Mr. Wilde then spoke to the room at large for twenty uninterrupted minutes. He congratulated them on the room’s décor, which he termed the nouvelle nostalgie school of architecture, then contrasted it with th
e barbarism he had found on his tour of the United States of America—a subject that seemed to strike a positive chord with the members, who cheered him to the echo, particularly when he asked them how one could trust a race that ignored the dado.
“As he left he told me they reminded him of the miners he had met in Colorado, though not, of course, so beautifully dressed, and he would like to commend them—as he had been commended himself—as being ‘bully boys with no glass eyes.’ With that, he climbed into his cab and bade me good night. Oh, and he added that if we needed any further help with our detecting, we were not to be afraid to seek his assistance …”
Chapter Seven
Soon after Mycroft had taken himself back to his Pall Mall lair—and with Mrs. Hudson fidgeting to tidy the room—Holmes and I betook ourselves to our respective bedrooms to complete our morning toilet. We had arranged to take Irene for lunch. “I see, gentlemen,” she had said with a smile, “a temporary release for good behaviour?” Nonetheless, the idea had seemed to please her.
As it was a crisp, dry morning, we decided to walk.
It is so easy to take this great city for granted. Too often we hurry through it, our minds on the matters of the moment that are concerning us, and fail to really see it. Or else that fickle fellow, the Clerk of the Weather chooses to blanket it in mist or rain, so that its vivid charm is obscured.
Today, for some reason, all the right portents were in place. The sun shone and was reflected from shop windows, where a veritable cornucopia of merchandise from every corner of our mighty Empire was on show. Neatly-garbed servant girls pushed children in perambulators, middle-aged couples seemed to take their time as they strolled arm in arm and allowed those who were younger—and always seem to be in a hurry—to weave between them. Children dashed hither and yon, playing those inscrutable games, the rules of which are a secret known only by the very young.
