by David Marcum
“You have to save me, Sherlock,” the Viscount cried as soon as he entered the threshold.
Mrs. Hudson huffed and left. I strongly felt the urge to follow her. Though he was handsome enough with his golden hair and blue eyes, the very presence of this man was repugnant, and the fact that he had addressed Holmes in such a familiar manner disgusted me even more.
Even Holmes was not as imperturbable as ever. “What brings you here, Henry?” he asked coldly. “I have no desire to be involved in your affairs.”
“Someone is trying to kill me!” the Viscount exclaimed. “Look at this!” He flung an envelope at the detective.
Holmes caught the paper neatly and examined it. Then he threw his head back and laughed heartily. He handed me the letter.
The envelope was of thick, pure white stock and contained two white sheets of similar texture. One page contained the following words: “Your sins have been judged. Prepare for your final journey and repent if you can. May the Lord have mercy upon your soul.” It was signed “The Left Hand of God”. The second page set out the Oratio Dominica in elegant Latin calligraphy. Both pages were handwritten with an unusual rich red ink.
Viscount Fairwood’s face contorted with rage. “Do you think this is a joke? Thirteen people I know of have died so far in this manner! Lord knows how many others have been similarly targeted!”
Holmes sobered immediately.
“Impossible,” I said. “The police, the press - someone would have known about it!”
The Viscount shook his head. “There is nothing suspicious - nothing to investigate. They just dropped dead. There is no specific timeline, no specific area or company - nothing in common except that letter. Some died within days, while others lived for weeks. No matter what precautions they took, all of them died eventually.”
“What did the forensic reports say?” I asked curiously.
“There were none, Doctor. No one suspected foul play.” The Viscount sighed. “I received the letter three days ago. I thought it was a joke, at first, but one of my acquaintances recognised it, as his uncle had received a similar missive prior to his death. I have made several enquiries subsequently, and as of this date, I know for certain that thirteen people have died upon receipt of this letter.”
“Go to the police,” Holmes said, frowning.
“I did, Sherlock, I did. No one took me seriously. There was this Inspector Lestrade, who actually laughed and said divine retribution was outside his jurisdiction,” he declared with a tragic face. “Perhaps I should approach one of their wives instead...”
My fists clenched. Holmes shook his head slightly.
“Very well, I shall look into it,” Holmes muttered.
The Viscount smiled unpleasantly and his eyes shone with triumph.
“Give me that list of victims I can see in your pocket,” Holmes ordered.
The man handed over the required item and looked expectantly at the detective.
“Go home, Henry,” Holmes told him. “Do let me know if you receive any more letters.”
The insufferable man actually pouted. “What? No deductions for me? Go on, bedazzle me, Sherlock dear.”
“Your spirits seem to have improved considerably,” I grumbled.
The Viscount smiled at me. Had I been a woman, I might have called it a charming smile. As a man aware of his history, I was instantly repelled.
“Of course, dear Dr. Watson,” he said smarmily. “I have Sherlock Holmes looking after me now. I feel much safer already.”
“There is no need to be so cheerful,” Holmes said sternly. “You may already have been poisoned, or introduced to the instrument of your death. I do not have enough information at the moment to do or say anything.”
The Viscount’s smile faltered. “Am I going to die, Sherlock? Is that your honest opinion? Please, tell me.”
Holmes regarded him thoughtfully. “We shall all die someday. I cannot yet determine whether your demise has been hastened or not. It is quite likely that these letters are sent after exposure to the toxic agent. Have you been unwell at all?”
Viscount Fairwood nodded. “I have been occasionally dizzy and short of breath. I do have chest pain at times, too. My family physician says it might be because I am stressed about the letter.”
“Go home,” Holmes said firmly. “I shall be in touch.”
As soon as the scoundrel left, I turned to Holmes. “How do you know that man?” I demanded. “Why does he act so familiar?”
Holmes sighed. “I knew him briefly when I was a child, Watson. Such a waste... perhaps you would not believe me when I say that the man is actually quite clever.”
“Clever as a venomous snake, surely,” I muttered.
Holmes laughed. “You are not wrong, my dear Doctor.” He rubbed his hands gleefully. “This case promises some excitement. I have no doubt this seemingly divine retribution is being dealt by a human hand. Would you care to accompany me, Watson?”
“Have I ever refused, Holmes?”
“Excellent,” he said, his expression akin to that of a child with a new toy and his favourite playmate. “What did you think of the letter?”
“The work of a deluded madman, surely,” I replied. “I doubt Archangel Gabriel himself would be bothered to smite a few humans; even ones as deranged as Viscount Fairwood - though I would not blame him if he did.”
Holmes laughed heartily. “You really have taken quite a dislike to Henry Fairwood, it seems.”
“If I could do so honourably, I would exterminate such men myself,” I muttered.
“Your morality holds you prisoner,” Holmes observed. “Nonetheless, let us desist from righteousness and examine the facts at hand.” He pulled the letter towards him. “Do you recognise the paper or the ink, Watson?”
I shook my head. “It is unusually thick and almost a glowing white,” I replied. “The ink is the colour of ventricular blood. I have never seen the likes of either. It also appears that the author of the letters has taken great pains to use such exquisite calligraphy. Could it be that we are pursuing a professional calligrapher?”
“No, Watson - look at the text carefully. This has not been written using a calligraphy pen; a stencil has been used. The writer has undoubtedly been very careful - but the distribution of ink and the lack of sharp edges of a pen nib clearly indicate otherwise. I believe diluted paint has been used instead of ink. Also, this paper is clearly custom-made, and has been especially bleached to make it appear such a brilliant white. I know of only one man who can produce paper of such quality.” Holmes stood up. “Fetch your coat, Watson. We are going to Islington.”
We alighted from the hansom cab in front of the Royal Agricultural Hall. I had only visited the grand structure once before; I had a chance to attend the Royal Tournament in June the previous year. I had no time to admire the hall, however; Holmes immediately dragged me through a series of alleys and narrow lanes until we finally stood at the door of a little bookshop with no name.
A bell chimed as we stepped in. The shop was so dusty that I sneezed almost as soon as I entered. Holmes, seemingly unaffected by the dust, calmly walked to the small counter where an old man dozed.
“Hello,” Holmes said loudly.
The old man woke up, startled. He peered at the detective with short-sighted eyes. “Who do you seek?” he grumbled.
“John Doe,” Holmes replied.
The old man narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“I wish to consult him.”
The old man huffed. “Who are you?”
“Sherlock Holmes.”
The old man relaxed visibly. “J.D., you have a guest!” he called out.
A dark, non-descript, middle-aged man with thick glasses appeared. He smiled at the sight of Holmes.
“Mr. Holmes!” he said cheerfull
y. “How can I help you?”
Holmes pulled out the letter from his pocket and handed it to the man. “Do you recognise this?”
The man called J.D. paled as he read the letter. He looked at Holmes beseechingly. “Please do not get involved, Mr. Holmes. Heaven knows you are a good man, but the Archangel smites everyone that stands in his way.”
“The Archangel?” I exclaimed. “Surely you joke, sir. This is the nineteenth century!”
“I know of thirty seven evil-doers struck down by the Archangel, sir,” J.D. told us. “All of them just dropped dead; not a single mark on them. I would be a fool to ignore such signs.”
Holmes regarded him coolly. “How do you know of the deaths?”
“I posted fifty of those letters for a client. Thirty-seven of them have died so far. Before you ask, Mr. Holmes, I had no idea of the contents. I received fifty sealed envelopes with addresses printed on them and more than adequate cash to cover the postage. I posted them immediately.”
“When was this?”
“A fortnight ago.”
“The list, please.” Holmes held out his hand. J.D. extracted a diary from his pocket and opened it. He handed the diary to Holmes. The detective read through the names quickly and returned the diary.
“So, you made this paper as well,” Holmes observed.
J.D. nodded miserably. “It was a special commission for a thousand boxes. Each box had one hundred envelopes and two hundred pages. I was paid well.”
“Who was your client?” Holmes demanded.
J.D. shrunk under his raptor gaze. “The gentleman gave his name as Richard Roe. I do not know what he looks like or the sound of his voice. He had covered every inch of himself - even his eyes - and spoke in a low whisper. I can only say that he was almost as tall as you. There was no address, either. He paid in advance and picked up the goods in person.”
“Did you make the stencils as well?”
“Stencils?” J.D. repeated. “I do not understand, Mr. Holmes.”
“What about the ink?” Holmes asked.
J.D. shook his head. “It looks like blood, does it not?”
“Dried blood is of a very different colour,” I remarked. “Only fresh blood can be this bright.”
The man peered at the letter. “I do not know of any ink which could be so thick or so bright. It could be carmine based paint.”
“Thank you,” Holmes told him. “You have been very helpful. May I ask you to keep me updated if you hear of any more related deaths?”
J.D. huffed. “Do I have a choice, Mr. Holmes?”
“None whatsoever,” Holmes replied pleasantly.
“As you wish, Master,” J.D. said, sarcasm dripping from his voice and disappeared into the back of the shop.
Holmes turned to the old man. “Certain persons on that list have approached the police. If Scotland Yard officers attempt to arrest either of you, send word to me immediately.”
Holmes was quiet for the rest of the evening. He had written down the fifty names in his pocketbook during our return journey. I had perused the list with trepidation. Most names on the list were familiar to me from newspapers. These were hardly upstanding citizens. What startled me, however, was that except for three names, the Viscount and his set of victims were conspicuously absent from the list. I said as much to Holmes.
“It is unlikely he would have only one courier, Watson,” he said thoughtfully. “For all we know, he may have killed hundreds already.”
“There must be something these people have in common,” I said.
“There must be.” Holmes smiled slightly. “You may be right after all, my dear doctor. Our murderer almost certainly suffers from delusions of grandeur... and also appears to be exceptionally intelligent. I am beginning to think that we are not after one man, but rather, a group of individuals colluding for this nefarious purpose.”
“Would you really call it murder, Holmes? For one thing, everyone seems to have died a natural death. Besides, the targets seem to be merely scum of the society,” I murmured. “Is that really so evil?”
“Do not sympathise with a murderer, Watson,” Holmes retorted sharply. “What gives this killer - or killers - the right to judge and execute his fellow men and women?”
“Innocents are not being harmed, Holmes,” I said.
“Yet,” Holmes replied ominously. He did not speak another word till next morning.
A telegram arrived for Holmes in the morning. His eyes glittered with anger as he read it and flung it in my direction. I glanced at the missive; it was from Lestrade. Viscount Fairwood had died in his sleep last night, and in light of his recent visits to the police, they were treating his death as suspicious. We had been summoned to examine the corpse.
Holmes did not utter a word as we rode to the Viscount’s manor. Even after we reached it, he silently waved away Lestrade’s approach and unerringly strode up to the bedroom. I followed him quickly, passing several servants on the way, none of whom looked particularly grief-stricken.
Holmes stopped short as he stepped into the room. Two constables manned the door. The Viscount’s lifeless body lay on the bed. A strange feeling of remorse passed through me. Just a day ago, I had resented this man so much that I had not cared for his potential death.
I cast a surreptitious glance at my friend. I had learnt of his self-flagellating tendencies by then; I knew he blamed himself if he was unable to prevent a death he thought he should have. However abominable the Viscount might have been, he had been a childhood acquaintance of Holmes.
“There was nothing you could have done, Holmes,” I said quietly.
He smiled tightly. “I do not need you to patronise me, my dear Watson.”
I was unsuitably relieved to finally hear the sound of his voice.
He approached the corpse slowly. He conducted his examination carefully and precisely. Finally, he pushed up the body’s sleeves one by one and beckoned me over.
“What do you make of this, Watson?” he asked, pointing to a small mark at the crook of the left elbow which could only have been made by a needle.
“An injection, Holmes - no more than a few days old.” I paused. “Given his weak heart, I would say he died of cognitive cardiac failure. Could it have been a toxin to induce a cardiac arrest?”
“Do you know of any?” Holmes asked eagerly.
I shook my head. “That is your domain,” I joked.
“Indeed.” Holmes could not hide his chuckle. “We shall await the post-mortem report. Perhaps I can persuade Lestrade to let us attend the autopsy, if you are willing.”
He strode to the door, stopped for a moment and turned to look at the Viscount one last time. “I will bring your murderer to justice, Henry,” he promised in a low voice.
Framed by the light from the corridor in the doorway, for an instant, the pale, stoic detective with determined eyes looked not unlike an avenging angel himself. I could almost imagine the spread of wings behind him. I shook my head, attempting to rid myself of the image. I was a medical man - I possessed a rational, scientific temperament. Such wild flights of fancy were not to be indulged in.
By the time I had regained control of my imagination, Holmes had already finished his conversation with Lestrade. From the shocked expression of the policeman, I could only guess that Holmes had told him about the others. The lives of forty-eight people had already been lost; and this was only the numbers we knew. Who knew how many more had been killed similarly? Holmes was right. Such callous disregard for the sanctity of life was intolerable.
Lestrade greeted me as I approached. Holmes walked off. I made a move to follow him, but the Inspector caught my arm.
“A word, if you please, Dr. Watson,” he said quietly.
I nodded, curiosity gnawing at me as the policeman led me to a small room.
/>
“Has Mr. Holmes been behaving oddly?” he asked in a whisper.
“No more than usual,” I told him.
“Where was he last night?”
“Baker Street,” I replied. “Why?”
“Would you swear to it?”
“Of course.”
Lestrade shook his head as if to clear it. “I do not like this talk of Archangels, Doctor. If such a horrendous killer really is on the loose, I can only think of one man who is clever enough to pull it off. Would you keep an eye on him for me?”
I stared at the Inspector with disbelieving eyes. “Are you implying that you suspect Holmes of all people? That is ridiculous!”
Lestrade winced. “Believe me, Dr. Watson, I hold Mr. Holmes in very high regard; he has always helped the Yard... but a case such as this - not only is it almost impossible to imagine that there might be a group of murderers out there killing people off as easy as insects, but he is also so clever that no one even knew of it. And now, Mr. Holmes tells me that this one is at least victim number forty-eight, but he refuses to tell me how he knows. What am I to think?”
“Holmes is the most honourable man I know,” I began hotly. “He would never-”
“But it is unpunished criminals or unrepentant sinners that are being killed,” Lestrade interrupted. “Does that not make the killer honourable?”
I reined in my temper with great effort. “It cannot be Holmes, Inspector,” I told him firmly. “As his flatmate, I can attest that he simply has not had the time or the resources to perform such a feat.”
Lestrade smiled warmly. “Excellent. Thank you, Doctor. Please maintain his alibi until we get to the bottom of this matter.”
I frowned.
“There are some within the Yard who will inevitably raise the question I just did, Dr. Watson... but if a man such as yourself provides a solid alibi for him...” Lestrade told me, still smiling.
I realised that not only was Inspector Lestrade not the unintelligent man Holmes often implied him to be; he was also a genuine well-wisher of my eccentric friend, and was looking out for him in his own way.
“You have my heartfelt thanks, Inspector,” I said softly. “I will assist with this investigation to the best of my ability.”