“Would that by any chance include the birch?” said Holmes.
“It would. The birch symbolised rebirth, renewal, fresh beginnings. It was a tree admired for its resilience, since it thrives in conditions where other trees might not. Its wood was used to build maypoles and also to ignite fires at Beltane, the festival held on May Day to usher in summertime. In addition there was the practice of using a broom made of birch to drive out evil spirits and invoke divine protection for a person or property.”
“And that last is a practice that you yourself have seen fit to uphold here?”
Shadrach Allerthorpe shifted his feet, his eyes downcast. “You will probably think me something of a fool, but my interest in druidical lore has not remained purely academic. Perhaps two or three years ago I began to adopt various of its elements into my own personal philosophy. I am a good Christian, please do not misunderstand. I attend church. Indeed, today being Sunday, I will shortly be accompanying the rest of the family to the mid-morning service at Yardley Cross. I have not become some godless heathen.
“At the same time, the ancient mystical ways hold considerable appeal. I accept that that may seem contradictory, but I find it is perfectly possible to hold both beliefs at once, druidical and Christian. When you are in woodland like this, surrounded by all these stately trees, can you not sense a kind of numinous godhead suffusing things? Do you not feel awed, as though you are in the presence of something greater than yourself, some divinity? The more so in this very spot, where a long-dead Celtic sage commissioned the erection of a sandstone menhir and oversaw – perhaps even executed himself – the inscribing of occult motifs onto its surface.
“This glade, gentlemen, is a place of power. It is a nexus where the natural lines of force that run like veins through the earth converge; where there is an almost palpable thrum of energies, which the menhir channels and radiates. No? Your faces suggest you are unconvinced – yours, Mr Holmes, markedly more than Dr Watson’s. Well, we live in an empirical age. You are entitled to your doubts.
“I myself often come here simply to bask in the ambiance and contemplate. I find it calming. I have even been known to talk to the menhir, expressing my inmost thoughts to it. Nobody else knows that I do this. If any of my family were to find out, I would be a laughing stock. Thaddeus especially would never let me hear the end of it. That is why I vowed you both to secrecy, and I entreat you, once again, to reiterate that guarantee.”
Holmes and I did as bidden.
“As soon as I saw you singling out my tracks in the snow,” Shadrach said, “I realised you would inevitably ascertain where I had gone. My only option was to follow you, explain myself, and throw myself on your mercy. This I have now done, and I hope that there will be an end to the matter.”
“Not quite,” said Holmes. “You still not have told us why you have so assiduously swept the area around the menhir.”
“Ah well, you see, life at Fellscar Keep is troubled at present. You do not need me to tell you that. It was never the most tranquil of homes, but Perdita’s death seems to have brought its inner divisions into sharp relief. My sister-in-law may not have been a balanced individual, but when she was in her right mind, she was a delight. She was the glue that held the household together, and without her, we seem gradually to be falling apart. This queer business with the bundles of birch twigs appearing around the castle is just a symptom of the malaise that oppresses us. You have heard, too, about the ghost in the east wing? No doubt someone must have mentioned it.”
I myself had more or less forgotten about the phantom reputed to haunt the castle. It had rather been overshadowed in my imagination by the Black Thurrick.
“Your niece did,” said Holmes. “She seems to think it may be the unquiet spirit of her mother.”
“Given that the ghost started manifesting a matter of months after Perdita died, chances are that it is,” Shadrach said. “Whether it be her or not, though, something is undoubtedly roaming the corridors in that section of the castle, some unearthly presence. Several of the servants have spoken of eerie noises there at night – groans, scrapes, footsteps and such. A scullery maid who was carrying a candle saw the flame blow itself out and heard a terrible, insinuating whisper. She fled in abject terror. Then there was Mrs Trebend.”
“The cook,” I said.
“A more pragmatic, level-headed woman it would be hard to find.”
In light of my recent, albeit brief meeting with the culinary miracle worker, I could not argue with this description.
“It is Mrs Trebend who actually saw the ghost in the flesh, so to speak,” said Shadrach. “She decided to follow up on the scullery maid’s account, in order to prove it to be just so much nonsense. This was back in the summer, as I recall. Mid-July. Well, that good lady returned from the expedition looking white as a sheet and shaking so badly she needed a tot or two of whisky to calm down.
“When at last she recovered her wits, she told us that she had been walking along the main corridor on the ground floor and felt something brush past her, something invisible. Its touch was like ice, she said, bringing her out in gooseflesh. She managed to pluck up the courage to speak, addressing this unseen presence. There was no reply, but then from the corner of her eye she saw a flicker of white, a pale figure flitting around the corner. It resembled a woman in a dress, Mrs Trebend said, and at that point her nerve broke and she ran.
“Now, a single report of ghostly happenings one might dismiss, even two, but half a dozen? And amongst them, moreover, an eyewitness account from such an unimpeachable source? Something must be up. Hence, the following evening I took it upon myself to investigate.”
“Brave man,” I said.
Shadrach shrugged off the compliment. “You are aware, now, that I am in thrall to mysteries. Here was another one, in my own home. I could not help but enquire into it.”
“And did you too encounter the ghost?” Holmes asked.
“No. I don’t know whether that is to be regretted or not. I felt distinctly uneasy in the east wing, I can tell you that. I had the strongest inkling that something was amiss there. But no ghost sighting, no.”
“Nevertheless, in an attempt to rectify the situation, you have swept around this menhir with a birch broom, since such an action is, as you say, supposed to drive out evil spirits and invoke divine protection. Fellscar is poisoned by some sort of malign influence, and here, in what you term a ‘place of power’, lies what you regard as the antidote.”
“It sounds absurd when you put it like that, but I believe it. I feel it was worth trying, at least.”
Holmes mused for a moment, then said, “It is quite some coincidence, is it not, that your magical, evil-cleansing broom is composed of the same stuff as the bundles the Black Thurrick has been leaving about the castle.”
“I beg to differ,” said Shadrach. “We have established that the birch tree is regarded as an emblem of renewal and rebirth. What else is this particular time of year concerned with but those very things? Christmas has its roots in traditions that antedate modern religion. It is a Christian celebration bolted onto a far older pagan one. Today marks the winter solstice. The days are shortening, but soon will begin to draw out once more. It is cold and dark, so we bring greenery indoors to brighten our homes and remind us that spring will, eventually, return. We ring out the old year and ring in the new. Renewal. Rebirth. That is why those Christmas characters we discussed last night – Zwarte Piet, Krampus, Père Fouettard, and yes, the Black Thurrick – are all associated with birch branches. It harks back to the past, a tacit acknowledgement of the true origins of the season’s festivities.”
He consulted his watch.
“But I must be getting back,” he said. “The coach leaves for Yardley Cross in an hour, and it wouldn’t do to miss church. We should return to the castle separately. If I am seen coming back with you, it might prompt awkward questions.”
“Very well,” said Holmes. “But before we part company, Mr Allerthorpe, m
ight I prevail upon you to answer me this. Are you the one behind the parcels of birch twigs?”
“No. Absolutely not. I can see why you might think it is me, but I swear to you, sir, upon my life, it isn’t. The birch twigs would seem to be exacerbating the unrest at Fellscar, something that I, by contrast, am desirous of quelling. I can only hope that, through my efforts here today at the menhir, I will have accomplished that goal.”
As Shadrach tramped off, I said to Holmes, “That was forward of you, asking him outright if he is the Thurrick.”
“I seldom pose a query to which I do not already know the answer,” said Holmes, “and I received nothing from him but confirmation of my supposition. Shadrach Allerthorpe is an eccentric fellow, perhaps a little weak-willed, but what does he stand to gain from tormenting Eve and Erasmus? Or you, for that matter? You have seen how he is with Thaddeus, ever kowtowing to him, ever obeisant. His position within the family hierarchy is too precarious for him to imperil it by misbehaving. Were he the culprit and his offences exposed, there is every likelihood his older brother would cast him out, and his wife, daughter and son-in-law with him. Don’t think Thaddeus Allerthorpe would not do it. He is nothing if not petulant. No, we must needs look elsewhere for our Black Thurrick, Watson. Somebody at Fellscar is hell-bent on sabotaging the status quo, but I am sure now – even surer than I already was – that it is not Shadrach. That means we have one fewer suspect and are consequently one step closer to success.”
Chapter Ten
ICE AND SOIL
By the time we neared Fellscar Keep again, I was chilled to the bone and very much looking forward to being back indoors. The castle seemed no less stern and gloomy than before, but at least it held out the prospect of relative warmth.
Holmes, it transpired, had other ideas.
“Shall we circumnavigate the lake?” he proposed.
“Do I have a choice in the matter?”
“I am not your master. You are fully at liberty to go your own way.”
“But if I do, there is a chance I may miss out on some clue-gathering.”
“Could it be that I have simply been seized by a whim?”
“I know you, Holmes. You rarely do anything on a whim. In fact, you are the least whimsical soul I have ever met.”
“Oh dear. I fear I am no longer an enigma to you, am I?”
“On the contrary. You remain damnably enigmatic. But I have learned to identify certain of your more obvious idiosyncrasies.”
Our lakeside promenade was hard going. The banks of that body of water were uncultivated and unkempt. The grass grew rank and full of tussocks, treacherous underfoot even without the additional hazard of snow, and there were dense thickets of hawthorn, bramble and willow further impeding progress.
The lake itself spanned some half a mile across at its widest and was roughly oval, with finger-like bays protruding here and there. I thought that in summer it might present a very pleasing prospect, its surface dappled with sunlight, reeds and bulrushes along its shoreline whispering in the breeze, perhaps the delicate plop of a fish rising to gulp down some unwary insect; but on that day its bare, frozen-over stillness struck me as profoundly intimidating. There was no telling the lake’s depth, no knowing what lay beneath the sheet of ice it had drawn over itself like a glaucous shroud. I thought of an eye paled by a cataract, revealing nothing with its blind stare.
Holmes scanned the ground intently as we went, although what he was looking for, he did not vouchsafe. The further we travelled, the more his pace slowed, until by the time we had completed nearly a half circuit of the lake, he was walking toe to heel like an aerialist on a tightrope, his gaze seldom straying more than a yard ahead.
Presently he came to a stop. We were now practically opposite Fellscar. The northernmost tip of the island on which the castle sat was projecting towards us, with the beetling flanks of the building rising from it, silhouetted against the low morning sun and casting a long shadow over the lake.
Going down on his haunches, Holmes spent several minutes keenly surveying a section of the bank.
“There are signs of disturbance,” he said at last. “Grass stems broken and flattened. Not recent, hence the traces are indistinct, but it would appear as though somebody climbed up and down the bank several times in close succession. This would have been about a week ago.”
He looked at me expectantly. It took me a moment to parse the import of his statement.
“That is the castle’s north wing,” I said, pointing across the lake. “Eve Allerthorpe’s bedroom is situated in the north wing, its windows overlooking the lake.” I felt a small inward thrill that was a mixture of disquiet and comprehension. “Are you telling me that there is a Black Thurrick after all?”
“I am telling you no such thing. What I am putting forward as a possibility is that Eve truly did see a dark figure crossing the lake after all. If not the actual Black Thurrick, then someone either deliberately impersonating the creature or else someone whom she mistook for it. Now, I need your help.”
He extended a hand to me, which I took.
“Hold tight,” he said.
“What are you going to do?”
“Test the ice, of course, to see if it can bear a man’s weight.”
“I really would advise against—”
Ignoring me, Holmes lowered himself carefully down the bank. I planted my feet and kept a firm grip on his hand.
Keeping one foot on the bank, he placed the other onto the ice. In slow increments he shifted his weight onto the forward foot.
“So far, so good,” he said.
Now he brought the rear foot to join its counterpart on the ice.
Immediately there came an ominous cracking sound from below. Holmes winced. I winced too. I trusted that the water was shallow this close to shore, but I did not know that for certain. Even if it were a comparatively safe depth of, say, three feet, Holmes would still be immersed to the waist were he to fall through the ice, which would put him at risk of contracting a severe chill and possibly pneumonia.
Experimentally, he shuffled forward. I leaned out as far as I could until I was in danger of toppling.
“I cannot reach any further,” I said.
“Then let go.”
“No, you come back to shore.”
With a forceful twist of the wrist, Holmes extricated his hand from mine. Now all I could do was watch, with bated breath, as my friend eased himself inch by inch across the ice. Every so often there came another of those cracking sounds from under him, or else a long, low creak which, although softer, was somehow just as menacing. I was fully prepared to launch myself onto the ice to rescue him if need be, although I cannot say I relished the notion.
Some ten yards out, he halted and, to my considerable relief, commenced the return journey. I assisted him up onto the bank again.
“There we have it,” he said. “I tip the scales at nine stone twelve, slightly below average for a man of my height, but then my frame is spare. The ice supported me. It could support an individual of a similar or lesser weight.”
“Assuming the person was foolhardy enough to do as you just did.”
“Or brave, or compelled by necessity. Let us presume that our Thurrick traversed the lake not just once on the night Eve saw him but a number of times.”
“How do we know that?”
“We do not with complete certainty. However, he climbed up and down the bank more than once. Would he do that if he had conducted just a single journey over the ice? Why? It is more likely he went back and forth multiple times, following the exact same route and stepping off and back onto the ice at this same spot on the bank.”
“Was this to fetch birch twigs?” I hazarded.
“But no bundles of twigs were deposited outside the castle on the night in question, that we know of. Besides, there is a plentiful supply of birch twigs in the woods on the other side of the castle. That spot is far easier to reach and, moreover, obviates the need for crossing th
e ice and potentially falling through. No, the Thurrick was on some other errand.”
“Eve reported that the Thurrick was carrying a sack upon his back. Could it be he had a child inside it and was looking for a nice secluded spot to consume the infant?”
I tendered this ghoulish suggestion in jest, although the laugh with which I framed it was not a comfortable-sounding one, even to my own ears.
Holmes’s corresponding laugh was far more jovial, and not a little self-deprecatory.
“Ha, Watson! Sometimes you astound me.”
“I do?”
“Here am I, wracking my brains to reconcile all these perplexing data, and you have come along and with just a casual, offhand comment cut straight to the heart of the matter.”
“I have?”
“Unquestionably you have. The sack. The Black Thurrick’s sack. Remind me, how did Eve depict the figure of the Thurrick to us at Baker Street?”
“I am not sure. Dark, did she say? And I think she used the adjective spindly as well. Those glowing eyes, of course.”
“Very good. But with regard to the creature’s posture, what do you recall? Her precise words.”
“You are asking me to quote verbatim from a conversation held almost two days ago.”
“Well, if you cannot, I can,” said Holmes. “She said, ‘A figure bent almost double, with a heavy sack upon its back.’ Bent double. A heavy sack. Our Black Thurrick was indeed carrying something as he crossed the lake. He was ferrying said burden from the castle to here. Eve happened to catch sight of him in the throes of just one such trip, but one may safely assume he repeated the process several times that night.”
“But what was in the sack?” I said. “And where was he taking it to?”
“Excellent questions, both. Was there a rendezvous with some accomplice here on the bank?”
Sherlock Holmes and the Christmas Demon Page 9
