The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters (51 page)

Without hesitation, Lady Fairclough strode to the wardrobe, pinned her hat to her hair and donned the same warm coat she had worn when first I laid eyes on her, mere hours before.

“But, Holmes,” I protested, “Lady Fairclough and I have not broken our fast.”

“Never mind your stomach, Watson. There is no time to lose. We can purchase sandwiches from a vendor at the station.”

* * * *

Almost sooner than I can tell, we were seated in a first class compartment heading westward toward Wales. As good as his word, Holmes had seen to it that we were nourished, and I for one felt the better for having downed even a light and informal meal.

The storm had at last abated and a bright sun shone down from a sky of the most brilliant blue upon fields and hillsides covered with a spotless layer of purest white. Hardly could one doubt the benevolence of the universe; I felt almost like a schoolboy setting off on holiday, but Lady Fairclough’s fears and Holmes’s serious demeanour brought my soaring spirits back to earth.

“It is as I feared, Lady Fairclough,” Holmes explained. “Both your brother and your husband have been ensnared in a wicked cult that threatens civilization itself if it is not stopped.”

“A cult?” Lady Fairclough echoed.

“Indeed. You told me that Bishop Romanova was a representative of the Wisdom Temple of the Dark Heavens, did you not?”

“She so identified herself, Mr Holmes.”

“Yes. Nor would she have reason to lie, not that any denizen of this foul nest would hesitate to do so, should it aid their schemes. The Wisdom Temple is a little known organization—I would hesitate to dignify them with the title,
religion
—of ancient origins. They have maintained a secretive stance while awaiting some cosmic cataclysm which I fear is nearly upon us.”

“Cosmic—cosmic cataclysm? I say, Holmes, isn’t that a trifle melodramatic?” I asked.

“Indeed it is, Watson. But it is nonetheless so. They refer to a coming time, ‘when the stars are right.’ Once that moment arrives, they intend to perform an unholy rite that will ‘open the portal,’ whatever that means, to admit their masters to the earth. The members of the Wisdom Temple will then become overseers and oppressors of all humankind, in the service of the dread masters whom they will have admitted to our world.”

I shook my head in disbelief. Outside the windows of our compartment I could see that our train was approaching the trestle that would carry us across the River Severn. It would not be much longer before we should detrain at Marthyr Tydhl.

“Holmes,” I said, “I would never doubt your word.”

“I know that, old man,” he replied. “But something is bothering you. Out with it!”

“Holmes, this is madness. Dread masters, opening portals, unholy rites—this is something out of the pages of a penny dreadful. Surely you don’t expect Lady Fairclough and myself to believe all this.”

“But I do, Watson. You must believe it, for it is all true, and deadly serious. Lady Fairclough—you have set out to save your brother and if possible your husband, but in fact you have set us in play in a game whose stakes are not one or two mere individuals, but the fate of our planet.”

Lady Fairclough pulled a handkerchief from her wrist and dabbed at her eyes. “Mr Holmes, I have seen that strange room at Llewellyn Hall at Pontefract, and I can believe your every word, for all that I agree with Dr Watson as to the fantastic nature of what you say. Might I ask how you know of this?”

“Very well,” Holmes assented, “You are entitled to that information. I told you before we left Claridge’s that I had spent the night in research. There are many books in my library, most of which are open to my associate, Dr Watson, and to other men of good will, as surely he is. But there are others which I keep under lock and key.”

“I am aware of that, Holmes,” I interjected, “and I will admit that I have been hurt by your unwillingness to share those volumes with me. Often have I wondered what they contain.”

“Good Watson, it was for your own protection, I assure you. Watson, Lady Fairclough, those books include
De los Mundos Amenazantes y Sombriosos
of Carlos Alfredo de Torrijos,
Emmorragia Sante
of Luigi Humberto Rosso, and
Das Bestrafen von der Tugendhaft
of Heinrich Ludwig Georg von Feldenstein, as well as the works of the brilliant Mr Arthur Machen, of whom you may have heard. These tomes—some of them well over a thousand years old and citing still more remote sources whose origins are lost in the mists of antiquity—are frighteningly consistent in their predictions. Further, several of them, Lady Fairclough, refer to a certain powerful and fearsome mystical gesture.”

Although Holmes was addressing our feminine companion, I said, “Gesture, Holmes? Mystical gesture? What nonsense is this?”

“Not nonsense at all, Watson. You are doubtless aware of the movement that our Romish brethren refer to as ‘crossing themselves.’ The Hebrews have a gesture of kabbalistic origin that is alleged to bring good luck, and the Gypsies make a sign to turn away the Evil Eye. Several Asian races perform ‘hand dances,’ ceremonials of religious or magical significance, including the famous
hoo-la
known on the islands of Oahu and Maui in the Havai’ian archipelago.”

“But these are all foolish superstitions, revenants of an earlier and more credulous age. Surely there is nothing to them, Holmes!”

“I wish I could have your assuredness, Watson. You are a man of science, for which I commend you, but, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.’ Do not be too quick, Watson, to dismiss old beliefs. More often than not they have a basis in fact.”

I shook my head and turned my eyes once more to the wintry countryside through which our conveyance was passing. Holmes addressed himself to our companion.

“Lady Fairclough, you mentioned a peculiar gesture that the dark stranger made at the conclusion of your brother’s wedding ceremony.”

“I did, yes. It was so strange, I felt almost as if I were being drawn into another world when he moved his hand. I tried to follow the movements but I could not. And then he was gone.”

Holmes nodded rapidly.

“The Voorish Sign, Lady Fairclough. The stranger was making the Voorish Sign. It is referred to in the works of Machen and others. It is a very powerful and a very evil gesture. You were fortunate that you were not drawn into that other world, fortunate indeed.”

* * * *

Before much longer we had reached the rail terminus nearest to Marthyr Tydhl. We left our compartment and shortly were ensconced in a creaking trap whose driver whipped up his team and headed for the Anthracite Palace. It was obvious from his demeanour that the manor was a familiar landmark in the region.

“We should be greeted by Mrs Morrissey, our housekeeper, when we reach the manor,” Lady Fairclough said. “It was she who notified me of my brother’s straits. She is the last of our old family retainers to remain with the Llewellyns of Marthyr Tydhl. One by one the new lady of the manor has arranged their departure and replaced them with a swarthy crew of her own countrymen. Oh, Mr Holmes, it is all so horrid!”

Holmes did his best to comfort the frightened woman.

Soon the Anthracite Palace hove into view. As its name would suggest, it was built of the local native coal. Architects and masons had carved the jet-black deposits into building blocks and created an edifice that stood like a black jewel against the white backing of snow, its battlements glittering in the wintry sunlight.

Our trap was met by a liveried servant who instructed lesser servants to carry our meagre luggage into the manor. Lady Fairclough, Holmes and I were ourselves conducted into the main hall.

The building was lighted with oversized candles whose flame was so shielded as to prevent any danger of the coal walls catching fire. It struck me that the Anthracite Palace was one of the strangest architectural conceits I had ever encountered.

“Not a place I would like to live in, eh, Holmes?” I was trying for a tone of levity, but must confess that I failed to achieve it.

We were left waiting for an excessive period of time, in my opinion, but at length a tall wooden door swung back and a woman of commanding presence—exotic in appearance with her swarthy complexion, flashing eyes, sable locks and shockingly reddened lips—entered the hall. She nodded to Holmes and myself and exchanged a frigid semblance of a kiss with Lady Fairclough, whom she addressed as “sister.”

Lady Fairclough demanded to see her brother, but Mrs Llewellyn refused converse until we were shown to our rooms and had time to refresh ourselves. We were summoned, in due course, to the dining hall. I was famished, and both relieved and my appetite further excited by the delicious odours that came to use as we were seated at the long, linen-covered table.

Only four persons were present. These were of course Holmes and myself, Lady Fairclough, and our hostess, Mrs Llewellyn.

Lady Fairclough attempted once again to inquire as to the whereabouts of her brother, Philip.

Her sister-in-law replied only, “He is pursuing his devotions. We shall see him when the time comes round.”

Failing to learn more about her brother, Lady Fairclough asked after the housekeeper, Mrs Morrissey.

“I have sad news, sister dear,” Mrs Llewellyn said. “Mrs Morrissey was taken ill very suddenly. Philip personally drove into Marthyr Tydhl to fetch a physician for her, but by the time they arrived, Mrs Morrissey had expired. She was buried in the town cemetery. This all happened just last week. I knew that you were already
en route
from Canada, and it seemed best not to further distress you with this information.”

“Oh, no,” Lady Fairclough gasped. “Not Mrs Morrissey! She was like a mother to me. She was the kindest, dearest of women. She—” Lady Fairclough stopped, pressing her hand to her mouth. She inhaled deeply. “Very well, then.”

I could see a look of determination rising like a banked flame deep in her eye. “If she has died there is naught to be done for it.”

There was a pillar of strength hidden within this seemingly weak female. I would not care to make an enemy of Lady Fairclough. I noted also that Mrs Llewellyn spoke English fluently but with an accent that I found thoroughly unpleasant. It seemed to me that she, in turn, found the language distasteful. Clearly, these two were fated to clash. But the tension of the moment was broken by the arrival of our viands.

The repast was sumptuous in appearance but every course, it seemed to me, had some flaw—an excessive use of spice, an overdone vegetable, an undercooked piece of meat or game, a fish that might have been kept a day too long before serving, a cream that had stood in a warm kitchen an hour longer than was wise. By the end of the meal my appetite had departed, but it was replaced by a sensation of queasiness and discomfort rather than satisfaction.

Servants brought cigars for Holmes and myself, an after-dinner brandy for the men and sweet sherry for the women, but I put out my cigar after a single draft and noticed that Holmes did the same with his own. Even the beverage seemed in some subtle way to be faulty.

“Mrs Llewellyn,” Lady Fairclough addressed her sister-in-law when at last the latter seemed unable longer to delay confrontation. “I received a telegram via transatlantic cable concerning the disappearance of my brother. He failed to greet us upon our arrival nor has there been any sign of his presence since then. I demand to know his whereabouts.”

“Sister dear,” replied Anastasia Romelly Llewellyn, “that telegram should never have been sent. Mrs Morrissey transmitted it from Marthyr Tydhl while in town on an errand for the Palace. When I learned of her presumption I determined to send her packing, I can assure you. It was only her unfortunate demise that prevented my doing so.”

At this point my friend Holmes addressed our hostess.

“Madam, Lady Fairclough has journeyed from Canada to learn of her brother’s circumstances. She has engaged me, along with my associate, Dr Watson, to assist her in this enterprise. It is not my desire to make this affair any more unpleasant than is necessary, but I must insist upon your providing the information that Lady Fairclough is seeking.”

I believe at this point that I observed a smirk, or at least the suggestion of one, pass across the face of Mrs Llewellyn. But she quickly responded to Holmes’s demand, her peculiar accent as pronounced and unpleasant as ever.

“We have planned a small religious service for this evening. You are all invited to attend, of course, even though I had expected only my dear sister-in-law to do so. However, the larger group will be accommodated.”

“What is the nature of this religious service?” Lady Fairclough demanded.

Mrs Llewellyn smiled. “It will be that of the Wisdom Temple, of course. The Wisdom Temple of the Dark Heavens. It is my hope that Bishop Romanova herself will preside, but absent her participation we can still conduct the service ourselves.”

I reached for my pocket watch. “It’s getting late, Madam. Might I suggest that we get started, then!”

Mrs Llewellyn turned her eyes upon me. In the flickering candlelight they seemed larger and darker than ever.

“You do not understand, Dr Watson. It is too early rather than too late to start our ceremony. We will proceed precisely at midnight. Until then, please feel free to enjoy the paintings and tapestries with which the Anthracite Palace is decorated, or pass the time in Mr Llewellyn’s library. Or, if you prefer, you may of course retire to your quarters and seek sleep.”

Thus it was that we three separated temporarily, Lady Fairclough to pass some hours with her brother’s chosen books, Holmes to an examination of the Palace’s art treasures, and I to bed.

I was awakened from a troubled slumber haunted by strange beings of nebulous form. Standing over my bed, shaking me by the shoulder, was my friend Sherlock Holmes. I could see a rim of snow adhering to the edges of his boots.

“Come, Watson,” said he, “the game is truly afoot, and it is by far the strangest game we are ever likely to pursue.”

Swiftly donning my attire, I accompanied Holmes as we made our way to Lady Fairclough’s chamber. She had retired there after spending the hours since dinner in her brother’s library, to refresh herself. She must have been awaiting our arrival, for she responded without delay to Holmes’s knock and the sound of his voice.