by Barry Day
And then I swear the hair rose on the back of my neck, for in that dimly-lit hall a vision slowly took shape over Cain’s head. It was like an engraving from some old tome. It showed four figures out of a nightmare. They were presumably men, though they wore cloaks that surrounded their heads, so that only their goblin eyes gleamed through, and they rode black steeds straight from Hell that reared up as if to stamp us all underfoot. And the image moved.
They got closer and closer. I could see the breath from the horses’ flaring nostrils and in my head I could hear the beat of those ghostly hooves.
The hall erupted in pandemonium. People screamed and a few appeared to have fainted. Several made a dash for the doors but were restrained by the servants of Cain, who sought to calm them. They alone seemed to be unsurprised.
And then—as suddenly as it had appeared—the vision was gone and when I looked at the stage, so was Cain. Only the candelabra—its candles much shorter now—guttered by the empty chair. Then, in what can only have been an accidental piece of orchestration—or was it?—the candles, too, were snuffed out in a gust of wind. The producers of that Grand-Guignol theatre the French were all talking about could have learned several valuable lessons from the events of this evening.
Now the doors of the hall were dramatically opened and the night air and the comforting lights of the street outside brought in a welcome touch of the everyday. People began looking at one another a little sheepishly, I thought, but there could be no doubt but that Cain had metaphorically made his mark. They would remember the man and his message and some would undoubtedly take it to heart.
One exception was the man at my side. “He hath paid no regard to the word of the Lord,” he muttered and then added, as if in explanation, “Exodus. Nine. Twenty-one.”
I chose not to dignify it with an answer. Since it would not do for us to be seen to be leaving together, I busied myself with my shoelace and, when I looked up, thankfully, he had vanished.
The crowds were streaming out by now, talking animatedly for the most part, though a few looked positively subdued. I heard a couple of society ladies saying, as they passed me …
“Do you know, dear, I felt a genuine frisson—and that’s something one never gets with the Reverend Rowley …”
To which the other replied—
“Such a manly man. Do you think he could be persuaded to address …?”
Outside stood Cain greeting the departing guests—some of them by name. It was clear that some of them were regular attenders at these little soirées. I noticed that two of his attendants stood a little behind him holding flaming torches—the fires of Hell?—which just happened to throw a light that created a halo effect around that golden head.
As I approached the doorway, I could see that Cain was in earnest conversation with a young man who had clearly been much affected by the events of the evening. Although I could not hear what the man said, it obviously pleased Cain, who gave deprecating little shrugs.
I made a mental note. Brown suit of foreign cut. Soft brown hat pulled well down—similar. Slim build. Round spectacles. Long but rather wispy moustache. Age—around thirty.
Their conversation interrupted by other departing members anxious to have a word with this new Messiah, the young man wrung Cain’s hand warmly, waved a hand in salutation and hastened off into the night.
His place was taken by the old lady, who had been seated on my row. Clutching her packages to her, she embarked on an incomprehensible eulogy. What a revelation … she had never in her whole life … divine intervention.
Cain smiled and smiled but it was obvious that this was not the object of his exercise and, after a minute or two of this, I saw him nod to one of his henchmen, who moved up to the old lady and tried, without making it too obvious, to move her along.
Unfortunately, he only succeeded in jostling her arm and, before anyone knew quite how it had happened, her bags were strewn all around her and the contents rolling around the pavement—bread, candles, vegetables and who knew what else.
Cain could scarcely contain his irritation. His plan was to play the benevolent saviour and this was no part of it. His eyes flashed instructions to his acolytes and they hurried to clear up the mess.
I decided to take advantage of the confusion to make my departure but, as I sidled around the debris, I heard Cain’s voice call out—
“Goodnight, Doctor Watson. So glad you could join us.”
Chapter Nine
I must admit that I was not in the best of moods with Holmes and my irritation was not improved by the fact that a light rain had begun to fall, for which I was not prepared. The Croxley Hall, moreover, was situated in a street in the back of beyond and I had to walk for fully a quarter of an hour before I could find a cab.
Once safely ensconced in the dry, I reviewed the evening’s events. Why had Holmes pretended he had another appointment, sent me off in his stead and then turned up anyway? Why send the dog and bark yourself? It was not the first time this had happened. No, I should definitely have a word on the matter with Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
But, I determined, that word could wait. On the way home I would drop into the club for a drink. After all, this damp night air … purely medicinal reasons. I instructed the driver accordingly and immediately felt better that I had acted so decisively.
No sooner had I put my head round the door than I was grabbed by young Thurston. Well, I say ‘young’, though he must be my age. It’s just that somehow one’s contemporaries never seem to get any older.
“Come to relive your humiliation, Watson?” he called out.
“My …? Oh, you mean billiards?” He’d been a trifle lucky at our last encounter. “Sorry, no, old man. Urgent business. Only time for a swift one …”
And then one thing led to another and I found myself telling him about the rally. Then he began telling me about the way his wife and her friends had taken to following Cain and his troupe around the London area. They thought it a rare evening out. Some of the tales they came back with made this evening pale.
Apparently, when the frenzy was really on him, Cain would call for people in the congregation who were in some way disabled to come forward and be cured. Mrs. Thurston claims they had seen some amazing sights and wouldn’t hear a word against him. “If the people who supposedly ran this country did a fraction as much as Janus Cain, we should all be a lot better off,” was a sentiment frequently to be heard in the Thurston household, it would seem.
Hearing us talking brought in old Archie Sennott, who’s something high up on one of the papers—I forget which—and he said that his paper had tried investigating some of these ‘cures’.
“And do you know, my people could never lay a hand on one of them. Seemed to be spirited away but, you know, I’d lay a pound to a penny that some of them would turn up another night looking different and go through it all over again.
“But what’s even more interesting,” he went on, “are those lads he surrounds himself with. We’ve had a bit more luck checking some of them out and most of them have got ‘form’—served time for rough stuff, that sort of thing. Suppose Cain feels he needs protection from the likes of Mrs. Thurston and her friends …!”
It was with renewed spirits that I returned to 221B an hour or so later. I had covered more ground than Holmes could possibly have imagined and gleaned some valuable insights.
I ran into Mrs. Hudson in the hallway.
“Oh, Doctor, Mr. Holmes isn’t back yet but I didn’t think you’d be long, so I showed the young man up to the sitting room. He said he didn’t think you’d mind.” “Well, that depends on who he happens to be, Mrs. Hudson,” I said jovially, for I had begun to feel well-disposed towards life in general. “Do we have any further clues?”
As she disappeared into her own quarters, I thought I heard her say over her shoulder—“American gentleman, by the sounds of him.”
I entered our sitting room and went over to the coat rack to hang up my ulster, still dam
p from earlier in the evening. Out of the corner of my eye I discerned a slender figure sitting in the visitor’s basket chair.
“Good evening,” I said. “Sorry you’ve been kept waiting. I observe you are from America. Which part of America?” ‘Holmes should see me now,’ I thought, ‘I’ve seen him impress people with less.’
“Let’s say—Cleveland,” was the reply.
It was then that I had my first real look at the speaker and I stopped in my tracks. If was the young man I’d seen after the Cain rally. Same brown suit, same soft hat. The long moustache, much fuller than most young men were wearing. What was he—twenty-eight? Thirty?
“Let’s say Cleveland, Doctor. For no one in their right mind would admit to New Jersey. Oh, I beg your pardon—you must think me extremely rude …”
And with that he swept off his hat and a cascade of blonde hair fell around his face.
I found myself looking at a moustachioed Irene Adler …
“But I …” I began, when Irene raised a finger to her lips. There was a step on the stair, as someone began to climb towards our room.
Hastily, she began to pile her hair back under the hat and now I could see why she had chosen one so large and shapeless. In a moment the young buck had returned.
Now I determined to get something of my own back. As the footsteps reached the door and the handle began to turn, I called out—“Come in, Reverend. Or do you need a little help?”
The door swung open—and there, her arms still full of bags and parcels, was the garrulous old lady.
“No, thank you, Watson, I think I can manage,” said Sherlock Holmes.
Then, as he let his various impedimenta fall to the floor—“Good evening, Irene. That shade of brown is most becoming.”
Now it was Irene’s turn to look stunned. Once again she removed the hat and this time pulled gingerly at her moustache.
“I think you will find just the smallest dab of Leichner’s adhesive will do the trick in future,” Holmes continued, as though he were commenting on the weather.
“You once told me that male costume was nothing new to you, since you had been trained as an actress. It was a remark I have never forgotten. Even so, it took me some while to see you, I who know your face better than most and am trained to see through a disguise. In future, be careful of the eyes. The windows to the soul, so they say. It’s something I can never impress upon Watson.”
And he began to remove his own trappings of wig, bonnet and shawl. I threw him a handy towel and he began to rub the make-up from his face. Bit by bit the lean, laconic features of Sherlock Holmes reappeared.
What a strange trio we must have looked.
“And you, Watson. I don’t know what that unfortunate clergyman must have thought. Assailed by the ravings of a maniac from the platform and the nudgings and winkings of a questionable military man from the side, I expect he rushed straight home to consult the Good Book.”
Personally, I didn’t see much humour in the situation but, since the other two certainly did, I was forced to join in. The man had, after all, looked remarkably like a startled rabbit, now I came to think of it.
I also felt considerably better when Irene admitted that she, too, had drawn the same conclusion.
“I could have sworn it was the same bumbling old cleric you used on me all those years ago, when you were trying to prise that stupid photograph from me at Briony Lodge. ‘Shame on you, Sherlock Holmes,’ I thought, ‘for showing so little imagination. ‘Everyone who has read John’s tales in the Strand Magazine must look at every stray vicar and think—‘There goes Sherlock Holmes!’”
Holmes smiled in an abstracted way. He was obviously still reliving the recent experience.
“That fellow who was organising the rest. I knew I’d seen him before, Watson. Thin features and a most villainous appearance. Raoul Sugarman. Down Hoxton way they call him the Raging Rabbi due to his vicious temper. I very much fear that we are dealing with a very ugly group of customers indeed.”
Then, just as quickly, his mood changed again and he was back with us.
“But I have no doubt that three such redoubtable musketeers as our good selves will prevail.”
Mrs. Hudson having by now retired for the night, I busied myself preparing a hot drink for us all, as Holmes—or Mrs. Bagshaw, as he insisted on calling himself—stoked up the fire.
“Come, old fellow, admit it—I was never more convincing. That baggy parasol that kept stubbing itself on Cain’s toes … a touch of genius!”
When we were comfortably seated, Holmes fixed Irene Adler with one of those penetrating looks of his that I am always grateful to see turned on someone else.
“And now, young lady—an explanation, if you please …”
“First of all, bless you for ‘young’,” said Irene in a tone that would have made me feel I had no wish to ask a single question more.
“Perhaps the excellent lunch had something to do with it,” she went on, “but after you had left me, I got to thinking about how intractable this problem seemed. Here we are, knowing who is doing all this and yet unable to prove anything. The man has built himself an ivory tower on his so-called religion and can hide within it whenever he likes.
“So I decided to storm that castle—or, at least, infiltrate it. Meet Ned Walsh, lay preacher from Cleveland, Ohio …” She indicated the hat and the costume. “I’m a simple kind of guy, sir …” and now the accent was unmistakably American—“and I know when the Good Lord is calling ma name. I heard him calling me tonight in that there hall, Reverend Cain, and when that New Apocalypse comes, I shall be ready!”
The young woman was, indeed, quite an actress. Then her tone changed yet again and this was a woman speaking from the heart.
“Sherlock, I know what you are going to say. Believe me, I have rehearsed all the arguments over and again. But you must understand that this is my life this man is taking over and I allow no one to do that. I intend to take it back. I intend to do that by removing Irene Adler from where he can see her and placing her where she will be quite invisible—right under his nose. The leaf in the forest.”
“This evening after—after whatever that spectacle was—I introduced myself. I told him I wanted to study his methods and take the Word back to the States—To cut a long story short, he has invited me to the Janus Cain Temple. He apparently has a complex of buildings in Whitechapel that he makes his headquarters …”
“Whitechapel, eh?” I said. “Surely, that’s where …?”
“Where the Ripper operated in his heyday. Precisely, Watson. Now, why, I wonder …? But pray continue, Irene …”
“I may well discover nothing but at least it is better than sitting around, waiting for him to come to me, as I know he will.”
“And your mind is totally made up?”
“Totally.”
“Then let me make one proviso.” Holmes leaned forward like some giant bird of prey about to take flight. By the way his fingers were pressed together, so that the knuckles shone white, I knew he was controlling himself with difficulty.
“You are, as you say, a free agent and Watson and I would have you no other way. What you contemplate is extremely dangerous. With your permission I shall have you watched night and day by the Baker Street division of the police force …”
“But that would defeat the whole purpose …!” Irene exclaimed.
“I don’t think you quite understand Holmes’s meaning,” I interrupted with a smile, “not until you see the ‘division’. My friend’s private police force normally goes by the more colourful name of the Baker Street Irregulars … They are the most disreputable-looking gang of street urchins you have ever laid eyes on …”
“And not one of them stands an inch over four-feet-six,” Holmes continued with a laugh, “yet I’ll wager there’s more useful work to be got out of one of those little beggars than out of a dozen on the regular force. It became obvious to me long ago that the sight of an official uniform seals men’s lip
s but these little fellows are invisible. They can go anywhere, see everything, overhear any conversation—and they are as sharp as needles. You will never see hair nor hide of them but they will be your guardian angels.
“And now, old fellow, what did you make of this evening’s events?”
“I have to admit, Holmes, that it was well managed, though it left a bitter taste that’s still in my mouth. The man has the gift for rabble rousing, there’s no doubt about that.”
“He has that, right enough,” Holmes mused. “There were moments there when I was reminded of what one reads of Robespierre and the worst excesses of the French Revolution. It only wanted one or two of those society ladies at the front to bring out their knitting. Yes, the psychology of the mob is a fruitful field for the talented fanatic. Today a few hundred people crowded into a suburban hall … tomorrow … Who can tell?”
“But the moving image, Holmes? How did he pull that off? I’ve never seen anything like it?”
“No, but you will, old fellow—and very soon. When I was taking my own—sabbatical—not too long ago …” and here he looked at Irene—“I spent some time in France, as you know …”
“Yes, studying coal tar derivatives in Montpelier or Montpellier or somewhere such …”
“In fact, I managed to wander a little further afield and found myself in Paris, where I made the acquaintance of the Lumière Brothers. The experiments they were making with what they were calling ‘moving pictures’ were quite fascinating and, from what I hear, a young apostle of theirs—young Georges Méliès—has now made a number of such images, which are becoming the talk of Paris. It is only a matter of time before they arrive on this side of the water. Meanwhile, it would appear that Daintry has made the same discovery and is now adapting it to his own ends …”
“You mean, the French are that far ahead of us?” I gasped.
“So it would seem.” Holmes was clearly amused at my chauvinistic concern. “I’m afraid as a race we are inclined to think something should not be invented until we are good and ready to invent it ourselves. We are then duly put out when those of a different persuasion fail to share that perception. Now that our American cousins have—what is the phrase, Irene?—‘the bit between their teeth’, too, I’m afraid you will have to keep a careful watch over your blood pressure, old friend.”