The Labyrinth of Death

by James Lovegrove

  Holmes and I followed Buchanan out into the corridor and thence through the maze of the house to one of its newer wings. There, our guide ushered us into a bright, airy room in which sat a half-dozen men and women on benches in rows. Immediately I was put in mind of a classroom, save that the pupils here were adults not children. They were listening attentively to a man at the front who was addressing them in a foreign language. He, by his appearance, reinforced the impression that a lesson was being taught, for he had a distinctly schoolmasterly air, down to the way one hand clasped the lapel of his tweed jacket while he spoke and the other executed demonstrative flourishes. He also had slightly wild hair and a pair of pendulous, epicene lips.

  He broke off mid-flow as we entered. As one, the members of his audience turned to look at us. A signal from Buchanan indicated that our presence should be ignored and everything should continue as before.

  The schoolmasterly man resumed his oration. He was reciting, I swiftly determined, a piece of poetry. The lines had a rhythmic, almost singsong quality, reliant for their effect as much on the dance of syllables as the sense of the words. The language itself, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, was Ancient Greek. Along with every other schoolboy in the land I had studied it as part of my education. I even recognised a few of the words and phrases the fellow uttered, although I could not for the life of me have translated the sum of them into cogent English. It had been a good quarter of a century since I had last had any proficiency in the tongue, and anyway Greek had never been my scholastic forte. I can still recall the elation I felt immediately after sitting my Senior Examination in the subject, when I was able to throw away the relevant books and primers, safe in the knowledge that I would never need to consult them again.

  Buchanan, inviting us to withdraw, closed the door softly behind him. “Dr Archibald Pentecost,” he said, “our semi-resident Hellenist. An expert on Aeschylus and Euripides, and at one time the Head of Classics at Eton. Retired from teaching full-time now, but he visits Charfrome on a regular basis to lecture, tutor, and give declamations.”

  “That was The Odyssey, was it not?” said Holmes. “Specifically, the blinding of Polyphemus the Cyclops.”

  “Was it? Ha! Well spotted, sir. My own Ancient Greek is, sad to say, somewhat deficient. I am more familiar with the culture than the language. Dr Pentecost is the man to go to for the latter. It’s why I employ him. As a matter of fact, he knows the entire Odyssey by heart, all twenty-four books of it. He can reel off any passage you care to name from the poem, word-perfect. The same goes for The Iliad. Quite some feat.”

  “One rivalled only by Homer, who was himself an exponent of the oral tradition – not to mention as blind as Polyphemus ended up being. The island of the Cyclopes is, I must say, a section of The Odyssey that has always made me uncomfortable. Odysseus tricks Polyphemus into believing that his name is Nobody. Then, when he and his crew put out the giant’s single eye with a burning stake, Polyphemus cries out to his fellow Cyclopes for help: ‘O philoi, Outis me kteinei dolo oude biephin’ – ‘My friends, Nobody has killed me by guile and not by force’. That is the line I recognised, which enabled me to identify the passage. I recall it from my school days. The other Cyclopes, none of them being great geniuses, duly ignore Polyphemus’s plaint. If nobody has killed him, he must be alive and well, must he not?”

  “They turn a blind eye, one might say,” I offered.

  Both Holmes and Buchanan laughed.

  “Well done, Watson,” said my friend. “Your pawky sense of humour comes to the fore. Yes, Odysseus utilises an almost criminal cunning as he maims Polyphemus, and one’s sympathies are therefore apt to lie with the latter.”

  “Even though he is an anthropophagous monster?” said Buchanan.

  “That is simply his nature. Odysseus embodies a worse kind of nature – human nature, which elevates deceit and cruelty to an art form and considers those attributes praiseworthy.”

  “How interesting. The great detective feels antipathy towards the hero and sides with the villain.”

  “In this one instance, perhaps I do, finding Odysseus only nominally the hero and maybe rather the true villain of the piece. There must have been other ways he could have effected escape from Polyphemus’s cave without gleefully inflicting such suffering on the poor, dumb creature and consigning him to permanent darkness. The man who masterminded the sacking of Troy, he whom Homer garlands with epithets such as ‘resourceful’ and ‘wise’, exhibits a surprisingly low, vindictive streak.”

  “An unusual reading of the text,” said Buchanan. “But it demonstrates how Homer’s works invite all manner of interpretation. The entire Ancient Greek literary canon, for that matter, is an inexhaustible wellspring of cerebral and spiritual nourishment, ever open to reappraisal and fresh analysis. From the never-ending vendettas of the Oresteia to the sophisticated satire of Aristophanes’s comedies, from the logical intricacies of Plato’s dialogues to the dense, sweeping histories of Herodotus, there is always something new to discover in their pages. A culture that flowered two and a half millennia ago continues to have relevance today. By comparison, our contemporary world…”

  He trailed off, shaking his head self-mockingly.

  “Hark at me. I sound like a priest sermonising from the pulpit. No, more like one of those cranks at Speakers’ Corner, haranguing passers-by in their monomaniacal way about vegetarianism or electropathy or what-have-you.”

  “I assure you, Sir Philip, you do not.”

  “You are kind, Mr Holmes. I am a passionate man, that I will admit, and sometimes my passion gets the better of me. To continue our tour…”

  He led us to another room, which he told us had formerly functioned as a ballroom. Music issued from within, repetitive and rhythmic. We entered to find a quintet perched on a dais. They were plucking, blowing and tapping intently on a range of instruments, none of which belonged in a conventional orchestra. There was a kind of zither, a box-like guitar and a double-stemmed oboe, alongside a tambourine and a set of pan pipes. A conductor kept time with his baton, eyes dreamily half-closed.

  The sound this ensemble created together was strange to my ears, full of quarter-tones and wavering dissonances. The tune’s cadences went in unexpected directions, following wayward melodic paths, yet were lilting and plangent for all that.

  To the accompaniment of the music, a troupe of dancers circled in stately unison. Their steps had something of the gavotte about them, but their arms described extravagant undulations in the air and they made occasional sudden leaps and prances, interspersing these with pirouettes and curtsies. Each wore a long flowing tunic and laurel wreaths crowned every head. A husky-voiced woman, clearly some sort of maîtresse de ballet, stood at the side, offering snippets of advice or instruction.

  The performance grew faster and wilder, the music gathering tempo and volume, the dancers swaying more and more frenetically. Everyone involved – musician, dancer and mentor alike – was lost in concentration. Lips were pursed. Perspiration glistened on furrowed brows.

  As we withdrew from the room, Buchanan said, “At our previous port of call you saw people honouring Calliope, the muse of epic poetry. Now you have seen the same honour being paid to Euterpe and Terpsichore, muses of music and dance respectively. The instruments are reproductions I commissioned from Signor Raffaela Fiorini, the distinguished Bolognese violinmaker, based upon originals kept in the Victoria and Albert Museum’s collection. You will have no doubt identified a lyre, a kithara and an aulos – the last being that woodwind item whose droning skirl is somewhat reminiscent of the bagpipes. The dance is what was known as a choreia, while the music is derived from notation recorded in fragments of scores unearthed by archaeologists. Usually it is accompanied by singing, but at present the dancers are merely learning the movements. Song will be added later.”

  “You strive for authenticity, then,” said Holmes.

  “Quite so. We pride ourselves on that. The Elysian way is to cleave with all possi
ble closeness to the customs of the lost civilisation we so admire. We even eat as the Hellenes used to. Your breakfast bears that out. Our diet revolves around fish, olives, goat’s cheese and, when in season, figs. The ingredients are not always easy to come by, but I have various contacts in southern Europe from whom I can order supplies. Moreover, our chef Mr Labropoulos hails from Greece itself and has become well-versed in the culinary practices of his long-ago countrymen.” Buchanan lowered his voice confidentially. “Between you and me, he is also regrettably hot-tempered, in common with many of a Mediterranean disposition. And you should hear him moan about the English weather!”

  Chuckling, he led us onward.

  “Speaking of which,” he said, “next on the itinerary is the gymnasium. As I am sure you both know, the Ancient Greeks exercised outdoors, in open-air arenas. Our chilly, rain-prone climate, a far cry from the Mediterranean, hinders us from replicating that experience. Hence our gymnasium is indoors. We do not disport ourselves naked, either, as the Greeks did. Modern decorum does not permit it.”

  “One can take authenticity only so far,” Holmes observed dryly.

  A pair of double doors opened onto a huge, sunlight-drenched conservatory that Buchanan said was purpose-built, his sole contribution to the house’s rambling layout, designed to his specifications. Here, men and women were engaged in sporting pursuits. Some wrestled in a sand-covered ring, some ran up and down a short track, and others feinted and thrust with wooden swords. The dominant sounds were the patter of bare feet and grunts of effort, and now and then a barked comment from a couple of athletic-looking instructors.

  My eye was drawn to a pair of young women who were taking it in turns to throw a small ball at a target on the floor. If the ball missed, the thrower had to give the other a piggyback when retrieving it. To make the task that much more difficult to accomplish, the thrower’s eyes were covered by the hands of the girl on her back, who steered her by giving verbal instructions.

  “Ephedrismos,” Buchanan said, seeing where my attention had alighted. “A popular pastime amongst Hellenic youth, depicted in many a terracotta figurine and on many a painted vase. It has value both as physical culture and to reinforce fraternity between the participants – or, as the case may be, sorority.”

  My focus remained on the two young women, even as Buchanan’s gaze roved across the rest of the room. They giggled as they sported together, presenting a very pleasing image of femininity. One of them in particular was as handsome a lass as I had ever laid eyes on. Her face was bewitchingly fetching, the more so for being animated and enlivened from her exertions.

  I felt I shared a firmer connection with her, though, than merely being drawn by her looks. She was not just attractive. She was familiar.

  Then it struck me.

  Of course I knew this girl.

  I was looking at Hannah Woolfson.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MISS SHIRLEY HOLBROOK

  I turned to Sherlock Holmes. He, to judge by the look in his keen grey eyes, had spotted Hannah Woolfson too. I nodded in her direction, as if to ask whether or not we should accost her. He responded with the tiniest of head shakes. I narrowed my eyes enquiringly, but then gave a sign of assent. Whenever I was uncertain how to act during the pursuit of an investigation, I invariably conceded to Holmes and took his lead. Only a fool would do otherwise.

  Oblivious to this brief, mute interchange between us, Buchanan had begun expatiating once more on the Elysian philosophy. “The Greeks idolised the perfect bodily specimen, as is amply borne out by their statuary, ceramics and friezes. They founded the Olympic Games to celebrate sporting and martial prowess in all its forms. At Charfrome, likewise, physical culture is an intrinsic component of our routine. Everyone is expected to participate in exercise for at least one hour every day. The schedule operates on a rotational basis. The people you saw listening to a rendition of The Odyssey will decamp to this room straight afterwards, and the musicians and dancers will follow in their turn.”

  “The curriculum seems broad,” said Holmes.

  “It has many facets,” our host concurred. “But that is necessary when you are shaping bodies and minds for the betterment of all.”

  “The betterment of all? So Elysianism, if I may use that coinage, is not simply about improving oneself?”

  “It is, it is. But it has wider ramifications too. Creating individuals who are healthy in every respect leads to the creation of a healthier society as a whole. Correct me if I am wrong, Dr Watson, but disease may occur in the human body as a result of infection by micro-organisms. Is that not so?”

  “I have read the German microbiologist Koch’s writings on the subject,” I said. “His findings support observations made in the past by Moreau de Maupertuis and Pasteur, and would appear to disprove the miasma theory of disease transmission once and for all.”

  “Something in the body is able to fight these invading micro-organisms and destroy them, something at the cellular level.”

  “Yes, that is the consensus of opinion.”

  “And by the same process some people may recover from life-threatening infections. Thucydides, no less, when writing about the Plague of Athens, records that the Athenians who contracted the disease during its first outbreak in 430 BC but did not die of it were immune when it flared up again in 429 and 427. Thanks to their initial exposure, something was propagated inside them, a resistance, which strengthened them against the epidemic’s subsequent ravages. The reason I am using this medical metaphor is that I, in a not dissimilar way, am strengthening the British people. Those who undergo our regime – those who embrace Elysianism, to use your word, Mr Holmes – emerge fitter, wiser, signally enhanced both in mind and body. They then take their improved selves out into the world and proceed to contribute to the advancement of country and empire. By their example they raise the levels of aspiration and ambition in the people around them. They boost our nation’s immunity to harm from within and without. The corporate entity that is Great Britain benefits as a whole from their presence.”

  “All through a period of deep immersion in Ancient Greece,” said Holmes.

  “I detect a note of mild scepticism. Greece was one of the greatest civilisations ever to have existed, Mr Holmes, if not the greatest. It lasted nearly a thousand years, beginning with the decline of the Mycenaeans in the eighth century BC and ending with the conquest by the Romans after the battle of Corinth in 146 BC. It encompassed most of what was then the known world, from central Asia to the westernmost tip of the Mediterranean Basin. It gave birth to art, democracy, architecture, science, medicine – those things we esteem so highly today. It balanced conquest and military might with trade and commerce. It understood the importance of naval power and the rule of law. Its nearest modern equivalent is to be found here in these wind-swept isles of ours. Britain is the latter-day Greece, and the one could do well by emulating the other.”

  “Really? But we are already a prosperous and thriving nation on our own terms. Our empire spans the globe. ‘The sun never sets…’ et cetera.”

  “True, but how much more prosperous and thriving might we be with an injection of Hellenistic influence into our bloodstream? How much better equipped to withstand the shocks and storms that the future undoubtedly holds? How much less likely to lapse into decline, decadence and degeneracy, the fate of so many other great civilisations in the past?”

  “I daresay it cannot hurt our chances.” Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “You are a visionary, Sir Philip, clearly, and I applaud you for it. But it is not axiomatic that one man’s vision, however uplifting, can be imparted to others.”

  “You question how successful I am in inculcating Elysianism in its adherents? Perhaps you would like to find out for yourself. You are welcome to talk to anyone here and canvass their views.”

  “You have beaten me to the punch. I was about to propose that very thing.”

  “What about the young lady over there whom your colleague seems unable to t
ear his eyes from?”

  I started. Had I been that obvious? Evidently I had.

  “She has only recently joined our ranks,” Buchanan continued, “but already she is proving to be the epitome of the Elysian ideal.” He clicked his fingers and beckoned to Hannah Woolfson. “Miss Holbrook? May we beg a moment of your time?”

  Miss Holbrook? I was momentarily flustered by the unfamiliar surname and wondered whether I had made a mistake. Perhaps the girl was not Hannah Woolfson at all but some lookalike, near identical.

  Yet, as she disengaged herself from her partner in the game of ephedrismos and strolled over to us, this passing doubt was dispelled. Miss Holbrook was the spitting image of the subject of the photograph Sir Osbert Woolfson had shown us. If the two were not one and the same person, then Hannah Woolfson had a true doppelgänger.

  “Sir Philip, how may I help?” said Miss Holbrook who was also Miss Woolfson.

  “Shirley, do you know who these gentlemen are?”

  “It is rumoured that Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson are visiting, and I can only assume these are they. Welcome to Charfrome Old Place, both of you.”

  “Miss Holbrook,” said Holmes with a small bow.

  “Your servant, madam,” I said. I rather meant it, too. Close up, Hannah was even more captivating. I would happily have been her servant, obedient to her every whim.

  “Mr Holmes and Dr Watson are curious to learn about the Elysian way,” said Buchanan. “In particular they want to know how well my beliefs carry – to what extent I am successful in exporting them to others. I realise you are a neophyte. It has been barely a week since you arrived. All the same, you seem to have taken to the lifestyle.”

  “Oh yes,” said Shirley Holbrook, with wide-eyed enthusiasm. “Like a duck to water.”

  “Do you feel comfortable here?”

  “Never more so. I will admit to a certain initial apprehension. I thought that what you had to offer might be something faddish. My qualms were rapidly dispelled, however. There is a friendliness here and a freedom such as I have seldom before encountered, and a dedication as well. We are all participants in a grand experiment, which Sir Philip is conducting with solicitude and a high degree of personal involvement. We are here to be liberated and, under his gentle tutelage, to grow and evolve as human beings.”