The Gospel of Sheba (6 page)

“All right,” Watson said, finishing the last of his brandy. “Holmes, you'll test Lomax's assertions tonight?”

“Oh, supposing he wants me to,” Mr. Holmes said airily.

“Supposing he wants you to, and supposing he is right, might I suggest the following courses of action?”

“By all means,” I prodded.

“You know I follow you in these matters as much as the converse is true,” the sleuth said nearly under his breath.

“First,” Watson declaimed, holding up a finger, “we inform Mycroft Holmes—my friend here's brother, who moves in very high circles indeed—to keep an eye on Mr. Sebastian Scovil and to hamper him whensoever he sees fit.”

A tiny grin flashed to life on the detective's face, which, at lightning speed, returned to composed neutrality.

“Second,” Watson continued, adding another digit, “while we cannot see Pyatt gets quite what he deserves, perhaps an inspector might visit the next meeting of the Brotherhood of Solomon following an anonymous complaint? This inspector would know all the true facts of the case and be instructed to make a very public show of believing Pyatt poisoned his comrades. Dark hints would surface, apt accusations. If nothing else, it would be humiliating. There would be a … lessening of trust among the brothers towards Pyatt, and in business, trust is everything. I say make a deal of noise at the Savile Club, maybe even clap a pair of derbies on the scoundrel, and thoroughly trounce his reputation. Might even scare a confession out of him, but it doesn't matter if we don't. The horse will already have fled the barn.”

“Bravo!” Mr. Holmes exclaimed, a wide smile crinkling his eyes as he raised himself upon one elbow. “I hadn't thought of that, but it would prove a most effective stopgap measure.”

“Well, one can't think of
everything
,” Watson returned.

Standing, I approached the settee with the peril in question. I passed it to Mr. Holmes, who covered his bare hand with the kerchief stuffed in his dressing gown pocket before accepting my evidence. He consigned it to the side table behind him. When he turned back to me, his grey eyes were pinched worriedly at the corners. I knew what he was about to ask, and dreaded it.

“You want me to test for poison tonight?” he asked softly. I nodded. “The symptoms you recorded and, I fear, suffer from, speak clearly enough—you want me to confirm aconitine?”

“I consulted a book upon herbaceous poisons this afternoon so as not to waste your time, and yes, that was my amateur conclusion, Mr. Holmes,” I agreed.

“Aconitine!” Watson said, gasping. “Lomax.”

“I was … not very long exposed,” I half-lied.

“But my dear chap—”

“He's young and vigourous and sturdy of constitution, Watson,” the detective pronounced as if blessed with the authority to decide such things. “Why, he must be twenty years our junior. How old are you, Mr. Lomax?”

“Twenty-nine,” I allowed.

“Ha! You see?” Mr. Holmes demanded, as if a point had been scored. He jerked his thumb at Watson. “The doctor here was twenty-nine when we met, and after a bullet on the battlefield didn't manage to kill him, enteric fever couldn't finish the rogue off either. I've every expectation of your full recovery, Mr. Lomax. When you are twenty-nine, you are invincible.”

“A fact I have multiple times stressed when making a different point entirely,” Watson muttered with a harried glance at the detective's bandaging.

Laughing, I gave them a small wave. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, gentlemen. As well as the assistance.”

“Won't you stay for another brandy?” Watson asked in a measured tone as I donned my coat.

He wanted only to cheer and reassure me, but I didn't find myself in a very expansive humour any longer despite his gracious intentions. For of course, there is no cure whatsoever for aconitine poisoning. There is only rest, and will, and perhaps fate.

“I must be getting home—my daughter will be worried,” I said.

“It was a pleasure,” said Mr. Holmes. Strangely enough, he sounded sincere. “Get some rest, my good man, and I shall see to the remainder.”

I took my leave of the pair, and—living in the West End a very short distance from Baker Street indeed—chose to walk home. As I strolled, I thought of the architects who had built the houses I passed. The impressive stone facades, the careful masonry, the uniformity of the scarlet bricks. Did those paying to erect the grand townhouses, I wondered, spare any thought towards the actual makers? The men with rock-steady grips and calloused fingers? Did capitalists of Scovil's sort see beauty in work and skill, or was everything denuded into pounds and pence? If the latter, how could they live that way?

Not that I'd any sound advice to offer regarding how to live life, apparently.

Constructing a house is a craft, I concluded as I walked, one boot before the other, in a sort of trace. Constructing a life, meanwhile, is an art, and one I'd apparently lost the knack of. And could I countenance shaping a
human
—a living, breathing human called Grace, who'd survived an acute bout of croup at age two thanks only to her mother's ferocity and my mute, terrified assistance—alongside someone who clearly didn't love me and had perhaps never intended to do so?

The biting wind filled my nostrils with an ephemeral bitterness, and the occasional harmless raindrop all but lashed against my skin. I was in a vicious mood, I recognize now, and a dangerous one.

For the first time in my life, I wanted to hurt somebody.

So, as any sublibrarian would do, I categorized the sensation.

What sort of hurt was I after, exactly? A senseless public house brawl soon forgotten? A rash act harming my own person? A delicious personal revenge?

Then the word
divorce
hit me like a physical slap.

An ugly event, divorce—a rare one, and still uglier for being so rare. Were more people officially divided, one might not be so very shamed by it. I could never put Lettie through such a trial, I comprehended in that moment. I was still in love with her, after all. Her sideways smile understood my jokes too well, and her top notes were too pure for me to throw her out upon the unpoetic streets.

No, I realized. That premise was grossly incomplete. I would never put
Grace
through such a thing. No matter who her mother was, or where for that matter.

An arrangement will have to be made.

I've just arrived home, and all the house is asleep. For some reason, I've pulled
The Gospel of Sheba
out of its covering and brought it with me as I retire to bed. The spells are absurd, the propositions either dreadful or ridiculous despite the elegance of the Latin used, and ceremonial magic is all comprehensive nonsense anyhow.

Nevertheless. The book is a marvel. It is a very old copy of very old spells made by a long-dead scholar, even if the Queen of Sheba had nothing to do with its provenance.

But what if she had? What if an African queen, arrayed in scarlet and purple and orange silks, skin oiled until it shone brighter than the gold dripping from her every appendage, heard a rumour of another monarch far away who loved knowledge the way other men loved gemstones? What if she scryed him in a polished quartz and saw in him her double, though they ruled two distant lands, and knew she had to meet with him or regret his absence forever? And what if, when she came before Solomon's throne, divinity crackled like thunder in the air between them, and they set about recording their sinister secrets?

The Gospel of Sheba
resides upon Lettie's pillow now, but I shall find a safer resting place for it on the morrow. I hate to think of returning it.

Exhaustion claims me even as I pen this, and my body revolts against the poison saturating it. Whether I will awaken after sleep takes me tonight is by no means a certainty. If I do, I must live better henceforth, of that much I am certain. I have caught glimpses of true happiness—in Lettie, who expanded my dreams; in Grace, for whom I can live to see hers be realized if I am lucky. But just now my heart dully throbs, pumping naught but cinders and grief, and I must consign myself to oblivion hoping I land in the proper sphere.

If I fail to wake on Earth, pray God Lettie never sees this. I did so desire ever to see her happy, and always told her so from the beginning.

Telegram from BAKER STREET to LISSON GROVE, September 22nd, 1902, marked URGENT.

EXAMINED WHITE PROTECTIVE GLOVES FOUND HIGH CONCENTRATION OF MONKSHOOD THEREIN STOP ACONITINE NEED NOT BE INGESTED, ABSORBED THROUGH TOUCH PARTICULARLY HANDS THUS ALL YOUR THEORIES CONFIRMED STOP INSIDIOUS BUT YOU MUST ADMIT VERY CLEVER STOP HAS YOUR CONDITION IMPROVED? STOP GLOVES WILL RETURN TO YOU BY AFTERNOON POST, ADVISE WHEN YOU MEAN TO RETURN ALL TO BROTHERHOOD AND I SHALL HAVE AN INSPECTOR AT THE READY PER WATSON'S PLAN —SH

Telegram from STRASBOURG, GERMANY to LISSON GROVE, September 22nd, 1902, marked URGENT.

SIR WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU OF SERIOUS EMERGENCY OVERSIGHT STOP YOUR WIFE MRS. COLETTE LOMAX HAS BEEN FOR NEARLY TWO WEEKS LYING ILL WITH PNEUMONIA IN STRASBOURG STOP SHE ASSURED US THE ISSUE WAS FATIGUE AND VOCAL OVERWORK STOP PLEASE PROCEED WITH HASTE TO THE HOTEL JOSPEHINE, AS SHE IS UNABLE TO TRAVEL ALONE, OR WIRE FUNDS FOR AN ESCORT —MDW, ESQ, COMPANY MANAGER

Letter sent from Mrs. Colette Lomax to Mr. A. Davenport Lomax, September 22nd, 1902.

Oh my Arthur,

I've lied to you, which is absolutely horrid, and forces me to see myself as I am—a woman who would rather invent a duke than admit to sleeping in mould. By this time even lifting a pen is a challenge, so I must confess quickly: I am really sincerely unwell, to my honest dismay. I haven't so much as set foot in Strasbourg proper yet, only hidden in this rathole of a hotel they booked for me, but I hope so that you will take me to see the sights when you come. If you do come.

Forgive me, I beg you. You said you only wanted me to be happy, you see, and I turned it into something false and dreadful, imagining you wanted a meadowlark in a cage and not a free songbird. At any rate, I've invented an entire duke at this point to stop you from fretting and I cannot continue in this vein any longer. A bit of pride was at work as well. I know you didn't wish for me to accept this tour, but I so wanted to feel valued in my profession, and I couldn't admit that you were right, and a better-organized engagement would have come along sooner or later. Even if you are angry, which you've every right to be, please take me away from this small corner of hell.

Always,

Mrs. Colette Lomax

Excerpt from the private journal of Mr. A. Davenport Lomax, September 22nd, 1902.

I fairly ran through the tiny spaces between the stacks today, breathless and dizzy, having been told by a new hire that my governess wanted to see me urgently in the foyer (Miss Church not being a member). Subtle iron finials were subjected to brutal treatment upon my part as I raced to what was certainly—I imagined—more unhappy news, this time involving my little girl.

Seeing Grace safe and quiet and clutching her doll next to Miss Church, my heart commenced beating in the usual manner again. Well, not quite usual, yet suffering from aconitine poisoning absorbed through monkshood-laced gloves and all. Still, closer to hale than its condition the night before. While weak and willowy, I find myself harder to kill than I'd imagined, if not nearly so hard to kill as Watson.

“What the devil has happened?” I exclaimed, advancing towards Miss Church's ruddy, slightly obstinate countenance.

“You can read, I think, or do y'want the likes of me to open your mail?” she desired to know. It was a fair answer to a stupid question. “These said
urgent
. What's happened, then? Where's the missus?”

I read my correspondence, hardly daring to breathe.

I gasped aloud.

After making arrangements with Miss Church to tend Grace for the next few days without me, and kissing my darling girl goodbye, I rushed for the exit. I was stopped by an elderly gentleman returning from lunch with several equally grey peers. The Librarian's hair curled invitingly, his merry brown eyes sparked, and he held out a hand as if preparing to compliment me before his cronies.

I was having none of it. There are more important things in this world—though not very many—than a position at the London Library. I surged ahead. But the Librarian was surrounded by men I now recognized as donors, and the group blocked my path.

“Are you all right, Mr. Lomax?” the Librarian questioned.

Laughing, I nodded. “Yes, everything's marvelous! My wife is very ill, you see. I'm to fetch her home from Strasbourg.”

“Ah,” he answered, eyes wide. “I am sorry to hear it.”

“Don't be sorry, I'm alive this afternoon to go to her, and she has been bedridden for a week, so things really couldn't be going any better,” I assured him. “I'll be back in three or four days, sir. Farewell!”

“But I mean to speak with you!” the Librarian called after me as I edged past baffled patrons.

“No time!”

“But I mean to increase your wage, given your unprecedented work ethic, Mr. Lomax! Allow me to make you an offer at least.”

“I accept!” I cried happily as I reached the door, throwing my arms wide.

“Marvelous!” exclaimed the Librarian. We were really making far too much noise for the foyer of the London Library, for arriving members were turning to stare in dismay alongside the shocked donors. “Magnificent! I shall adjust your figures accordingly and enter them in the books. Strasbourg, you say? Godspeed, Mr. Lomax!”

I write this from a second class train, retracing Lettie's path. My fingertips are still numb, and thus clumsy, but I have never cared less for penmanship. The little towns with their church spires do resemble picture postcards, just as my wife said, and upon viewing them I know they bored her dreadfully. How tedious her travels must have been, and still worse her confinement to unhygienic chambers. If Lettie insists upon one thing, it is absolute cleanliness.