by Andy Lane
Mrs Hudson, our landlady, had been alerted by telegram to our impending arrival. Despite a sprained ankle which had occurred during our absence, and which my locum had treated, she had a large dinner awaiting us. At last I was home and comfortable again.
I descended the next morning to find Holmes slumped in his armchair in the same position he had been in when I retired. He was still wearing his mouse-coloured dressing-gown.
'Have you slept, Holmes?'
'Sleep is for tortoises.' A huge pile of newspapers was spread around him and he was clipping out articles and pasting them into his files, 'I have a deal of catching up to do. Mrs Hudson had been saving these for me every day. This,' he said, waving a copy of the Globe, 'is the nervous system of the city, Watson! The agony columns, the small advertisements, the snippets of news concerning lost parakeets and accidents involving brewers' drays... I can predict half the crimes in London for the next six months by keeping abreast of these sorts of minutiae and trivia!'
Whilst I breakfasted on scrambled eggs, bacon and kedgeree, all washed down with cups of strong, sweet tea, Holmes busied himself amongst his cuttings. I took the opportunity to look around the room - made fresh to me by a few days' absence. It struck me suddenly how bohemian our abode must have looked to the casual visitor - of which we had more than our fair share, given Holmes's vocation. The general arrangement of chairs and tables was, it must be said, unremarkable. The three windows looked down onto Baker Street, and provided ample light. The furniture was comfortable.
A spirit case and gasogene in one comer were a welcome sign of refreshment, and a curtained recess in another provided privacy, should it be needed. No, it was the details that gave us away. The initials 'VR', which Holmes had patriotically inscribed in the wall adjoining his bedroom using a small-calibre revolver were, perhaps, the most obvious feature. Next to them his unanswered correspondence, affixed to the mantlepiece with a jack-knife, was a minor detail and the Persian slipper full of tobacco a mere frippery.
How did I put up with the man? More importantly, how did Mrs Hudson put up with him?
The answer to that was simple. Mrs Hudson's affection for Holmes was that same feeling that one would show for a precocious but wayward child. She had taken him under her wing, and Holmes, the great observer, never realized the extent to which she mothered him. The fact that the rent which
- and I frankly admit this - he paid for both of us could have already bought the house many times over did not influence her in the slightest, I feel sure.
I glanced over at the side of the room which, by mutual agreement, was
'mine'. A few scattered volumes of short stories, a copy of Gray's Anatomy, a framed portrait of General Gordon and an unframed one of Henry Ward Beecher . . . these were my possessions. Not for the first time, I compared my life to that of my friend, and I found myself wanting.
'I have been researching the Library of St John the Beheaded whilst you lay asleep,' Holmes announced, apropos of nothing. 'I have been able to find no reference to it anywhere, save some guarded comments in an obscure theological journal published almost a century ago. It appears to derive from the Venetian Church of S. Giovanni Decollato, or S. Zan DegolA as the locals call it. According to the documentation we were provided with by his Holiness-' he tapped a sheaf of vellum beside him which, I noticed, was already stained with marmalade ' it is located in Holborn, in the notorious area known as the St Giles Rookery, A nasty neighbourhood it is too; a veritable rabbit-warren of alleys, cellars, tunnels, slums and stairwells. The police dare not go near it, save in teams.' He frowned slightly. 'I tracked down Lady Fantersham there, you may recall, when she was kidnapping girls for the white slave trade.'
'An unexpected location for a library. I would have expected something isolated and heavily guarded. A manor house, perhaps, in some remote corner of England.'
'I suspect that the location is not accidental. Given the value that we know must attach itself to such a collection, what better place to hide it than amongst thieves and rogues?'
'Ah,' I cried. 'The Purloined Letter by Edgar Allen Poe! The best place to hide an incriminating letter is in a letter rack!'
'Poe is an American drunk and his fictional detective Dupin a fortunate blunderer,' Holmes snapped, and threw off his dressing gown to reveal impeccable morning attire.
'Surely,' I said, 'if we are descending into the lair of the criminal classes, a disguise of some sort. .'
'No need: He reached .for his top hat. 'The one reference I have been able to find to the Library of St John the Beheaded implied that some form of immunity from harm was extended to its patrons.'
'Holmes, that was a hundred years ago!'
'Then we had better hope it is still accurate.'
Within a few minutes we were in a hansom heading for Holborn. Within sight of Newgate Prison, empty now but still a name to strike terror into the heart, we turned off into a series of narrow alleys, whose steep sides restricted the sky to a narrow, overcast strip and provided plentiful shadows for lurking muggers.
'Can't go no farther, Guv,' said the cabbie after a while.
I was not sure whether he was referring to the narrowness of the alleys or the danger of lingering. Holmes paid him off whilst I gazed around, convinced we were being watched.
'The St Giles Rookery' Holmes murmured as the two wheeler clattered away to wider and safer thoroughfares. 'A portmanteau term born of St Giles's Church and the rook, a burglar's jemmy. Keep your eyes peeled and your hand on your revolver.'
'How did you...'
'Your topcoat hangs heavy on the right-hand side. No doubt the crows will have noticed.'
'Crows?'
'The look-outs, Watson. Five of them. You had not noticed?' He gave an exclamation and moved off. I followed, wishing I were somewhere else.
The alleys seemed to crowd in on us as we walked. The cobbles were more like sharp stones embedded in mud. Glassless windows and doorless doorways led to sparsely furnished rooms and stairwells with broken treads. Undernourished dogs paced us from a distance. Sneering men in grimy, collarless shirts watched us from doorways. Hollow-eyed women glanced quickly up at us from sinks and tables, only to look away if we met their gaze. Children ran in gangs, playing with shards of wood and frayed string, staring at us with hard, old eyes. The stench was appalling - worse than the fetid odour of gangrene and trenchfoot which was my overriding memory of Afghanistan.
'The dregs of London make their abode here, Watson,' Holmes warned, sotto voce. 'I would be surprised if there's a man or woman with an honest occupation within a mile of this spot.' His voice was bitter. 'The criminal underclasses do not call themselves the Family for nothing. They live ten to a room and teach their children to become dips and mutchers in their wake, and who can blame them? Those politicians who decry anarchy and socialism as dangerous foreign nonsense should look to their own backyards first. There is no law here; it is nature, red in tooth and claw.'
'Dips and mutchers?' I asked.
'Pickpockets and thieves who rob drunks,' he said. 'Really, Watson, your education is remarkably lacking in some areas.'
A pair of grimy ragamuffins ran past us. I was about to reach out and ruffle the hair on one of them - a small, blonde girl - when Holmes stopped me.
'Tosh-fakers,' he explained.
'I'm sorry?' I pulled my hand back.
'Urchins whose dubious profession it is to search the sewer mouths of the Thames, casting amongst the excrement for valuable trifles which have been lost down privies and drains.'
'How can a child endure this way of life?' I exclaimed.
'They survive,' he said.
Holmes seemed to have memorized the route, for he led me unhesitatingly through turn after turn. Within moments we were moving through what seemed to be a crowd of scarecrows who eyed us with envy and hatred, but we carried a bubble of privacy with us that pushed the crowd away before us and closed it again in our wake. As Holmes had said, we were protected. I could not h
ave retraced even a fraction of our path, for every street and every face bore the same marks of hardship and violence.
'Does anything strike you as strange?' Holmes muttered after a while.
'Nothing in particular,' I replied.
'Hmmm. I would be prepared to swear that this rookery is less crowded than the last time I passed this way. Many of the male inhabitants appear to be absent.'
'Less crowded?' I couldn't see how any more people could be crammed into the area.
'Relatively speaking,' he added, and walked on.
I noticed after a while that, as well as the dogs, a gaggle of stooped and greyhaired women were following us.
'We appear to be the object of some attention,' I murmured to my friend.
'Not us,' he said, 'the dogs.'
Indeed, now he mentioned it, I noticed that the women were carefully watching what the dogs did. When one of the hounds took it into his head to . . . delicacy forbids me to be specific . . . perform a natural function, then one of the greyhaired hags would immediately rush forward and scoop the resulting ordure into a canvas sack.
'Collected for the tanneries south of the Thames,' Holmes said in answer to the question which I could not bring myself to utter. 'Too old to steal, they eke out a living this way'
'Holmes, all this . . . this degradation . . . and within five minutes walk of Simpson's Tavern and Divan in the Strand.'
'Yes,' he said. 'Obscene, is it not?' He looked around. 'We have arrived.'
The doorway was no different to others we had passed; empty, with the timbers of the doorframe rotted and mossy. Inside there was darkness.
Holmes led the way.
I had expected shadows, rats and creaking floorboards. What I found was a black curtain that parted to reveal a carpeted corridor lined with damask.
Oil lamps provided a warm yellow light. The ceiling was adorned with alabaster carvings. The contrast with the poverty outside was almost unbelievable. I could well have believed myself to be in a house in Cheyne Walk, having dreamed the journey here.
An emaciated attendant dressed in black silk robes came forward to greet us.
'Gentlemen,' he said in a voice so low it verged on the indistinguishable.
'Do you have an appointment?'
Holmes handed his card to the man, who looked at it in disdain.
'If you have no appointment, then I regret . . : He trailed off politely.
'Perhaps a letter of introduction?' Holmes suggested.
The man inclined his head.
'That would, of course, depend on...'
Holmes handed over the vellum sheet sealed with the papal crest.
The man frowned.
'Yes, sir,' he finally intoned. 'I believe that will be sufficient.'
Holmes looked over at me and raised an eyebrow.
'Perhaps you would care to sign the visitors book,' the man continued, moving away. 'We do not allow documents to be removed from the premises, but you are at liberty to examine any that you wish whilst you are here. What is your area of interest?'
'Stolen books,' Holmes said succinctly.
'We have a small section on bibliographic theft, sir, including a treatise which casts an intriguing new light upon the fire which consumed the library at Alexandria in the sixth century.'
We both stared at him.
'My little joke,' he said quietly. 'Please follow me.'
We followed him to a little nook, where we both signed an ancient tome as thick as a large loaf and were issued with small slips of card with our names on them. He then led the way along the corridor and up two flights of stairs which groaned under the weight of the books piled upon them. His robes made no sound as he walked, and in the silence I was aware of the swish that our morning clothes made. Three rooms led off each landing, so thickly lined with laden shelves that the walls themselves were not visible. I glanced in one of them and saw a small man sitting at a desk and reading a book. His face was morose, an impression aided by his heavy eyebrows, and he looked as if he had selected his clothes in the dark from a wardrobe of remnants from the Eastcheap markets. His lightweight linen jacket was inappropriate for the time of year, the time of day and the occasion; his white trousers were baggy; his embroidered silk waistcoat belonged to another ensemble entirely. A paisley cravat was loosely knotted at his throat, and a battered fedora was crammed upon his head.
'Excuse me,' I said, and made as if to leave.
'Were you looking for anything in particular?' he asked.
'I'm not sure'.
He smiled cheerfully.
'I hope you find it,' he said. 'I myself am in search of universal peace, an end to strife and unlimited custard for all, but I have a feeling I'm looking in the wrong place.'
'Might I ask what you are reading?'
He held the book up so that I could see the title: Adventures Amongst the Abominable Snowmen by Redvers Fenn-Cooper. As a child I had doted on the adventures of the famous explorer. I remember the sense of loss I had experienced when reading about his disappearance, a decade or more ago.
'Are you interested in his work?' I asked.
'I'm searching for the man,' he replied.
'He vanished, did he not? Are you intending to set out on an expedition to look for him?'
'Oh I know where he is. I meant it metaphorically.'
'I see.' I began to withdraw. 'I hope that you find him.'
'Most kind,' his voice rang out as I ran to catch up with Holmes and our guide.
We turned left and walked for a few yards, passing another two such rooms, descended another flight of stairs and turned back on ourselves.
We followed this curiously winding path in silence for some ten minutes or more, passing innumerable rooms, each containing innumerable books, folders and pamphlets. By the end of it, I estimated that we were in a cellar area a hundred yards or so deeper into the building and had passed more books than were in the possession of the British Library. In all that time, I had seen nobody but the small man with the lunatic grin.
As we turned a sharp corner and descended a ramp to a lower level, I heard a noise behind me. Turning, I caught sight of a robed and hooded figure, reminiscent of a monk, hobbling across the corridor behind me. It stopped at an ornately carved door and produced a small key. Before opening the door, the figure paused and glanced at me. I could not distinguish any features within the shadow of the hood. Conscious that I was staring, I turned and walked on.
After a few more minutes walk, our guide gestured for us to enter a room of bare, undecorated walls. A second man, also swathed in black robes, also thin, rose to greet us from behind a bare desk.
'Gentlemen,' he whispered. 'Are you looking for anything in particular?'
I looked around for our guide, but he had vanished.
'I have been retained,' said Holmes, moving forward, 'by Pope Leo XIII to investigate the theft of certain documents from this library. My time is short, and I would request your cooperation.'
'Of course,' the man whispered. 'My name is Ambrose, Jehosephat Ambrose. I am the Head Librarian of the Library of Saint John the Beheaded. Whatever questions you have, please ask them.'
'Which documents are missing?' my friend snapped.
'Three books from our alternative zoology and phantasmagorical anthropology section. Here are the titles.' He held out a sheet of paper.
'You were expecting us?'
'I was expecting someone.'
'What, pray tell,' I interjected, 'is "alternative zoology"?'
'The study of fabulous beasts,' Ambrose answered. 'Dragons and deamons, griffins and chimerae. You may have heard rumours concerning a sea creature which inhabits Loch Ness, near Inverness in Scotland. We have a number of manuscripts describing its habits and its physiognomy.
You may also remember the discovery of the fossilized bones of what might be termed "primeval monsters" at Charing Cross some ten years ago, now. Again, we have quite a selection of books on that subject, going right back to t
he Bible.'
'The Bible?' I said, scandalized.
' "There were giants in the Earth in those days",' Ambrose quoted.
'And these books were kept where?' Holmes said tersely, trying to get the conversation back on the right track.
'In a room, not far from here.'
'And your security procedures?'
'Nobody is allowed to remove books from the library.'
'So I am informed. I am not concerned with what people are allowed to do, but with what they are forbidden to do.'
Ambrose had the grace to look discomfited.
'You will have noticed,' he began, 'that we have an arrangement with the local criminal fraternity. More precisely, two of the local gang leaders, or