by Barry Day
I found it quite an uplifting sight but I had supposed that I was alone in my particular observation of it, when Holmes spoke.
“You know, old fellow, the human condition is a strange one. When Shakespeare wrote of all the world being a stage, he spoke truer than he could possibly have known. At this very moment we are wandering through one of its sets, brightly lit and full of hope. But if some celestial Stage Manager were to whisk it away, remove the roofs from the houses behind it and permit us to peer in, we would see such a mixture of good and ill, kindness and bigotry, mirth and malice as would provide the stuff of a million plays.
“We, Watson, spend so much of our lives with our noses pressed up against the window of crime and depravity, it is easy to miss the other view. But this …”—and with his cane he indicated the bustling scene around us—“this is also what people are capable of being, what the vast majority of them aspire to be. It is to permit them to fulfil those aspirations that we must continue to do our puny best to contain the forces of Evil.”
Rarely have I heard him in such philosophic vein and I was moved to be shown a glimpse of that great heart he tries so hard to hide. He once said of me that he never got my limits, that I had—how did he put it?—“unexplored possibilities” about me. How much truer, I felt, was that observation about him?
Then—as if consciously righting some balance—he said …
“I think devilled kidneys. What about you?”
Mrs. Turner’s house was in an undistinguished but neatly-kept side street just behind Covent Garden. As we picked our way between the discarded crates and cabbage stalks that were the relics of the morning market and avoided the porters with their heavy trolleys, I noticed that Holmes was carefully scanning the locality. I began to do the same.
As far as I could tell, we did not appear to be the object of anyone’s undue attention but on that crowded canvas, who could be sure?
Soon we were plying a polished brass knocker.
I won’t say we knew Mrs. Turner well but over the years she had occasionally stood in as housekeeper for her friend, Mrs. Hudson when that good lady was visiting various members of her far-flung family. Consequently, she knew our little ways perfectly well and had learned not to ask unnecessary questions. In her turn she had deduced that there was usually a degree of method in our apparent madness.
When the door opened, it was not Mrs. Turner but Irene who stood there, though over her shoulder I could see the landlady hovering protectively in the background.
Gone was the bedraggled, though strangely beautiful, creature of the night before. In front of us was a lady from a fashion plate. With her close-fitting satin dress in a becoming shade of brown, a cloak in contrasting fabric but identical colour draped casually from her shoulders and a small white hat that appeared to have been artfully (and expensively) teased from nothing, she literally took one’s breath away.
“You look beautiful, Irene,” I said quietly, as I took her outstretched hand. But, having accepted my tribute with a genuine smile of thanks, it was obvious whose approbation she really wanted.
“Sherlock?” she said. In what might equally well have been a greeting or a question.
And then Holmes cleverly defused the moment.
“I see that you have slept well, patronise Fauché in the Rue St. Honoré, have shopped at Gorringes in the past twenty-four hours, accompanied Mrs. Turner to the Market this morning and are now ready for your lunch. Other than that, I can deduce nothing.”
Not being used to my friend’s parlour tricks, Irene Adler reacted as I have seen so many people react over the years. The eyes first reflect disbelief, then a touch of fear and finally, amazement. The latter phase is often accompanied by a slight but distinct gaping of the mouth.
In Irene’s case the latter was caused by the fact that she was laughing as though she would never stop.
“Sherlock Holmes!” she cried as she took us both by the arm and literally dragged us into Mrs. Turner’s cosy little sitting-room. “You really are the devil they say you are. Now, you explain that to me before I strike you with my parasol.”
“Which you have ‘borrowed’ from Covent Garden, incidentally,” said Holmes, now positively enjoying himself, as he perched on one of the landlady’s ‘best’ chairs that only saw service on ‘special’ occasions such as this.
“Oh, dear, Watson, I fear my reputation, such as it is, will be in shreds and patches, if I cannot break the habit of explaining things.”
He turned to face Irene.
“The parasol, I admit, is accidentally obvious. You were twirling it coquettishly for an hour or so the other evening as Violetta. Like any other man in the audience, I could scarcely have failed to notice it …”
Irene nodded solemnly, as if conceding him one point.
“Fauché? The gown, if I may say, fits you so well, it is clearly not bought—what is the expression, Watson?”
“Off the peg?” I offered.
“Precisely. Moreover it has several features in its design, such as the draping of the material over the left shoulder, that are signatures of Fauché. The Paris designer is beginning to have as many distinguishing signs as a painter has brush strokes. I suspect that M. Fauché has a dummy in his work room made in your image—but that, I admit, is speculation.
“The gloves were the subject of a special one day sale held yesterday by the Messrs. Gorringe and advertised in yesterday’s newspapers. You have, by the way, omitted to remove their tag.”
There was a small gasp from Irene and she looked down at her hands. Holmes, I noticed was looking decidedly smug.
“As for the Market, it is hard to ignore the basket of fresh produce on the table there, which I was able to see from the doorway. It was unlikely, under the circumstances, that Mrs. Turner would leave you alone in the house and further corroboration is provided by the cabbage leaf—no, I am in error …”
And with his cane he spiked a small green leaf from the side of Irene’s tiny shoe.
“… by the Brussels sprout leaf adhering to your shoe. You see, every mystery is simple, once it is explained.”
Irene looked at him with a frown. “But you have omitted one highly significant detail, Holmes.”
Holmes looked surprised. On these occasions he is accustomed to servile surprise. I have never known his explanations questioned. “And what may that be, pray?”
“My readiness for lunch.”
“Simply a wild guess!” Holmes replied. “Based on Watson’s knowledge of women on three Continents.” And the small room rang with our laughter.
Rules in Maiden Lane—a few short steps from the daily maelstrom of Covent Garden—is reputedly the oldest major restaurant in the City of London, dating back, I believe, about a hundred years.
Its distinguished history notwithstanding, it has always seemed to me a haven of civilised calm and never more than today, as we were shown to a table in a distant alcove, where we could see without being seen. All around us was dark polished wood, bevelled glass and comfortably worn plush. The world in which one might kill or be killed was far away.
“Here am I wearing my finest finery and you tuck me away from sight. Are you ashamed to be seen with me, Sherlock Holmes?”
Then she became serious and stayed his answer.
“It is so good to see you both. What has happened since I saw you last?”
Those remarkable blue eyes never left Holmes’s face, as he told her of our conversation with Mycroft and my plan to attend Cain’s rally that evening.
“So you are convinced that this man is behind everything that has happened—then and now? And yet you can do nothing?”
“I am as certain of it as I am that there will be jugged hare on the menu they are about to bring to us. I am equally certain that this time there is a greater purpose behind his actions and his desires than mere bloodlust—and we must find out what that is. The man is clever and supremely confident. He believes himself to be invulnerable. Make no mistake abou
t it, in some demented way he believes the Lord is on his side.
“Were we to take him into custody, he would simply laugh at us and bring in some expensive lawyer to accuse us of hounding an unorthodox servant of God. Can you not imagine the headlines? Lady Hatton’s organisation, for one, would be on us like a ton of bricks …”
“Not the happiest of allusions, Holmes, if I may say so,” I interjected.
“Just so, Watson, just so. You see how I need my Watson to keep me honest?
“Cain, too, has his own organisation and its purpose is not to save souls. No, this time he means to leave his mark—the mark of Cain—on all of us and I fear we have little enough time to discover where he plans to leave his brand.”
There was a natural silence at the table, while the aproned waiter hovered and took our order.
When he had departed, Holmes told her something of our future plans.
“We have allowed this man to dictate events so far but it is now time for him to be thrown off course. It will be interesting to see how a man who believes himself to be God reacts when that divine right is challenged.”
“So do you intend to disrupt this evening’s rally?” Irene asked.
“By no means. I merely desire Watson to observe Cain in action and report back. I myself have been summoned to an emergency meeting with Mycroft and his colleagues, though I have few expectations in that direction. No, my old friend here has, as so often, the more enviable task.”
I thought of some of the ‘more enviable tasks’ I had been given over the years, several of which had turned out to be a distinct risk to life and limb, but this hardly seemed the moment to debate the point.
Some time later, with the winter light fading and the lamps being lit, we delivered Irene back into the safe keeping of Mrs. Turner, promising to keep her informed on a daily basis of the progress we were making.
She looked, I thought, a little sad to see us go. As we turned the corner of the street, I looked back. She was still standing at the open door and watching.
Chapter Eight
The Croxley Hall in Hammersmith had passed through a number of incarnations in its time. It had begun life as a warehouse for storing grain, then been converted into a community theatre. Now it was available for hire by any group for any purpose. If I’m not mistaken, the last time I had had cause to pass it, it was hosting a World Conference of Numismatists.
Certainly, it can have seen nothing more exotic than The Church of the New Apocalypse.
One had to give Cain his due. In a few short months he had spread his word widely and, by the looks of the people streaming towards the shabby edifice from every direction, that word seemed to have fallen on receptive ground.
There were the usual anonymous looking folk, who seem prepared to turn out for any kind of gathering, from a road accident to a rally, and have nothing better to do. But there were working class families, often with children in arms, and more than a sprinkling of well-to-do matrons, who seemed surprised to find themselves in these unaccustomed surroundings but who, nonetheless, stepped carefully from their carriages and hurried into the hall.
I had taken care to arrive a little early myself for the very purpose of watching the crowds and, as the minutes ticked by before the event was due to begin, I confess I was becoming increasingly puzzled and concerned. Were these people here today in expectation of some kind of circus spectacle? Somehow I didn’t think so. There was not the subdued buzz of excitement one detects in the approach to Sanger’s big top, for instance. Instead, there was a sense of concentration and expectancy. They felt they were about to hear something important. I could only conclude that a considerable number of our fellow citizens felt the need to be saved.
I was also struck by the attendants who were guiding the congregation to their seats. To a man they were young and well-muscled and dressed in identical black suits—a far remove from the elderly folk who had shuffled around the pews in our local church when I was a boy. If they were typical of the servants of the New Apocalypse, Cain did not have followers; he had recruited a militia.
Now the attendants were beginning to close the doors of the hall. I hastened across the road and slipped inside, taking a seat in the back row on one of the shabby cane chairs that threatened to impress itself on my person long before the evening was over.
As I was striving to find a comfortable position, I was vaguely aware of a commotion at the door. A few latecomers were insisting on being let in and I heard one of them complain in a loud tone about “the door of the House of the Lord standing ever open.”
A moment later I was being urged to move up and make room and happily bequeathed my seat to a shabby Nonconformist clergyman, whose suit looked as though it could have done with a good dusting.
Next to him on the very end of the row was a voluminous old lady, who had apparently done her week’s shopping on her way here and was now experiencing considerable difficulty in finding a place to stow all her packages, not to mention her umbrella.
What an ill-assorted group we must have made, I though, as two of the black-suited young men firmly placed their backs against the closed doors.
At that moment there was the sound of a trumpet, even though the simple stage at the end of the hall was completely bare, except for a single chair.
The disembodied quality of the sound and the fact that it seemed to be coming to us through some kind of amplification made it echo around the hall, which immediately fell silent. By the excited expressions I could see on many faces, as people turned to seek the source of the sound, they seemed to wonder if they were hearing the Last Trump.
And while they were disconcerted, a small door at the back of the platform opened and closed and Janus Cain was in our midst.
I had to admit, it was cleverly staged. A trap door could not have been more effective. The man carried a heavy candelabra, which he set beside the chair and the wavering flames played up and across his face, giving it an unearthly appearance.
There was the full face with its thin lips, the cascade of hair and beard that I had seen so recently, the piercing black eyes that seemed to pick out each member of his audience, as though he could see into their very souls.
I heard the clergyman next to me muttering to himself. As far as I could catch it, he was saying something about “Vanity of vanities. All is vanity.” It was, I must confess, a sentiment with which I was beginning to agree wholeheartedly.
I was about to whisper as much when a sudden thought struck me and I took another sidelong look at my neighbour.
The disreputable black suit, the pinched, furrowed face, the lank, greasy hair … they were all very familiar, now that I came to look closer. Baker Street. Of course. How many times had I seen Holmes adopt that particular guise and sally forth, so that he could pass freely among the lower elements of our great city? And he thought he could deceive me with it one more time?
“Don’t worry, Holmes!” I muttered, digging him in the ribs for his pains. “Mum’s the word.” He started to say something about bearing false witness against one’s neighbour—and then Cain began to speak …
Whatever you thought of the man, he was a mesmeric speaker, that had to be admitted. The public voice, at least, was low and vibrant. It seemed to echo off the walls of the old building and fill it.
He spoke of the ungodliness of the world we had all been sent to share. He told personal little parables of man’s inhumanity to man. Whether they were true or not was immaterial, for he crafted them so skillfully that I could hear women whimpering all around me.
As he continued, the tone of his voice grew slowly but perceptibly higher and louder, as though what he was hearing himself say was angering him. I realised early on that he was employing the same tactic as I had read about with certain American fundamentalist preachers in backward areas. He was slowly but surely whipping this crowd up to an emotional frenzy.
Now a new element entered his discourse. Every now and then he would ask rhetorically—�
��Do you hear me?” At first his listeners did not appear to know how to respond but then there would be a loud cry of “We hear you!” The second time I was able to identify the source as the black-clad supporters, now acting as a claque.
Soon a number of the genuine congregation had enthusiastically got the point. “We hear you!” they cried and one or two even added “Hallelujah!” for good measure.
It was a bizarre spectacle to be taking place in the heart of the most civilised city in the world and it seemed to be particularly upsetting to my neighbour, who was now muttering about taking the name of the Lord in vain so loudly that he received a sharp “Ssh!” from the old lady on the other side of him.
“My dear Holmes,” I felt like saying to him, “you are in severe danger of overplaying your hand.” But, of course, I did not.
Cain was now moving into a higher gear in his address.
We were all of us blood-stained sinners. Our souls were besmirched, begrimed and forfeit. The Lord had been watching us and the Lord was sorely disappointed by what he saw. No, the Lord was now angry with his children. “Vengeance is mine,” He says. “Vengeance and Retribution.”…
In the back of my mind even I knew that he was using the line out of context but the familiar words were undoubtedly having their effect. Some people were now sobbing out loud, quite oblivious to those around them. There was now palpable fear in that hall.
Cain paused and waited until the sound died down.
The Lord had come to him, he told us. The Lord had come to him and told him there had to be a new Beginning and that he was to be the Servant of the Lord who should be his Minister at this time of New Beginning.
“You will take a new name,” He told me. “Henceforth you will be called Janus, for you will be all-seeing. And I name you Cain, for the days of gentleness and mercy are past. Before I grant a new world of Peace and Love, there must be great Cleansing. There shall be a New Apocalypse. I shall send the Four Horsemen—Pestilence, Famine, War and Death. Few will be saved to see that New World but you, Janus Cain, shall show them the way …”