Sherlock Holmes and the Apocalypse Murders

by Barry Day

  “Not to add to your travails, Watson, but Daintry/Cain was employing another little device that we may expect to encounter again in our line of work …”

  “And that is …?”

  “His eyes …”

  “What do you mean—his eyes?”

  “That’s right.” It was Irene who was leaning forward now. “I’ve never seen anyone with eyes that colour …”

  “And you never will,” Holmes replied, “at least, not in nature. Our friend has picked up another Continental trick. Just over a decade ago a Swiss doctor named Fick invented what he called a ‘contact lens’—in German, of course! It was intended as a corrective device—a single piece of glass that covers the eyeball. Having tried them myself, I can assure you that they are not particularly comfortable but they are effective. To begin with the glass was plain but now he has found a way to colour it. With the result …”

  “One can have any colour eyes one wants.” Like any woman, Irene’s mind had leapt to the cosmetic—as well as the criminal—possibilities.

  “Yes, I’m afraid it adds one more dimension of difficulty to our beleaguered profession.”

  I was getting out of my depth with all this nothing-being-what-it-seemed-to-be business.

  “I can’t think why the fellow doesn’t just change his head and have done with it,” I said rather gumpily.

  “As ever, old fellow, you have hit the nail on the head—though perhaps that isn’t quite the expression I want!

  “And now, in view of the hour, I think it would be unwise for young Ned here to be wandering the streets. I wonder, Watson, whether you would be good enough to ask Mrs. Hudson to make up the bed in the spare room? Tomorrow bids fair to be an interesting day for all of us and I commend the two of you to get a good night’s sleep in readiness.

  “As for me, I think there are two pipes worth of pondering between me and my bed.”

  My last sight of him was of a figure sunk deep within his armchair, his head so wreathed in clouds of smoke that it appeared to be disembodied.

  Chapter Ten

  “Excellent. We are travelling at fifty-three and a half miles an hour at present. We should be well on time.”

  Holmes took a boyish interest in trains. It was not the first time I had seen him occupy himself in this way. He would ascertain the distance between the telegraph posts along the line—in this case, sixty yards—and then consult his watch on his lap. The calculation was then, as he never tired of telling me, a simple one. I had long ceased to argue the point. We should be in Oxford soon enough.

  In the opposite corner of the carriage loomed Mycroft, the sheaf of papers in his hand looking like so many playing cards. I took them to be Whitehall memoranda from the way he was shuffling and discarding them, occasionally balling one of them up with an elephantine explosion of derisive breath and dropping it into the gladstone bag that lay open at his feet. I wondered what high matter of state I was observing being born.

  Finally, Holmes retrieved his watch and tapped it.

  “We shall be arriving in precisely five minutes, gentlemen. Mycroft, perhaps you will be good enough to inform us of this evening’s protocol. We never saw fit to have such happenings at my own alma mater but perhaps at The House …?”

  “Certainly not. We were far too serious minded. No, I am informed that the Boar’s Head Banquet is a tradition that a somewhat avant garde Senior Common Room are attempting to initiate, this being their first foray. It is an attempt to integrate academia with what they euphemistically refer to as the ‘real world’. To that end they invite as guests two distinguished—or, should I say, well known—figures who may be expected to take contrary positions on issues of the day. Thus creating—and please understand that I am merely quoting—‘intellectual synergy.’”

  “And tonight’s guests just happen to be Wilde and Cain?” said Holmes thoughtfully.

  “Indeed. Wilde, I gather, was invited some time ago. As I mentioned before, he was a distinguished scholar of the college in his time. The real world seems to have gone to his head …”

  “Not to mention his mouth,” I heard myself say. Both heads turned as one in my direction.

  “Touché, Doctor,” said Mycroft.

  “Still, it would never do to underestimate Mr. Wilde. He certainly never does. As for Cain, I gather he offered his services some few weeks ago and, in the light of the public attention he is currently attracting …”

  “We are to be given rooms in college overnight and the banquet is to be preceded by a reception in the Master’s Lodge at which both men will be asked to speak—hopefully, briefly. We then go into the Hall for the meal. Lestrade has his men deployed around the college grounds. If they are as successful tonight as on the two previous occasions, they will probably succeed in arresting one of the Magdalen deer! Personally, I could never feel comfortable in an institution that encourages wildlife to wander around the place.”

  I have always found it strangely childish the way the rivalry between the different colleges persists into adult life. It’s exactly the same, whether it’s Oxford or Cambridge. My own family circumstances had never permitted my going to either, so I can be reasonably objective, I hope, and frankly, I found Magdalen College on this, my first visit, to be magnificent.

  Mycroft, to do him justice, realising my interest, instructed the driver at the station to take a detour, so that we could approach it from the river side. Even though dusk had fallen, the tower was a splendid sight against the evening sky and I could well imagine May Morning with the choristers welcoming the dawn and the students—most of whom had stayed up all night for that very same purpose—crowded in punts on the water below. The bells were still ringing in my ears, so to speak, as we descended from the cab at the college gates.

  As the porters unloaded our luggage from the cab, I noticed that Holmes insisted on taking one bag into his personal care. It resembled nothing so much as a large hat box and I had noticed that he had stowed it with great care on the luggage rack in the train. When I had remarked that he seemed to be bringing a great deal for such a short stay, he brushed me aside with—“Watson, don’t you worry your head about that”—or some such reply.

  Now the Bursar—an old friend of Mycroft’s, it appeared—hurried up to welcome us and soon we were walking though the ancient grounds. Movement in the far distance caught my eye and I guessed they were the deer for which Magdalen is famous.

  “Wildlife!” Mycroft hissed in my ear.

  Once settled in our rooms in the main quadrangle, we had time for a leisurely bath before changing and being escorted by one of the junior dons to the Master’s Lodge.

  The air was crisp and the moon bright, casting dramatic shadows over centuries’ old stonework and glass. At a moment like this I could quite see the timeless attraction of the scholar’s life, so different from the disorderly affairs that occupied the world outside its walls.

  We were among the last to arrive and the elegantly-appointed room was crowded. All our hosts, naturally, were wearing their academic dress—long black gowns draped with various colourful ‘collars’ denoting their status. The rest of us were, as requested, in evening dress.

  Formal dress, I have to admit, does little for me, except make me feel vaguely uncomfortable but it transforms Holmes. The black makes that lean figure look even taller and more impressive. Or perhaps he regards it as one more disguise and thinks himself into the part. How does one tell when an actor is acting?

  I now had an opportunity to study the Master, Cyril Overton. A small, gnome-like man but a brilliant one in his own field, Mycroft had informed us. He had been writing his great work on Byzantium for at least forty years.

  “Well, the place has waited long enough. I don’t suppose another few years will make too much difference,” I’d said but the levity seemed to go unappreciated.

  Now Overton was buzzing around from group to group, as if seeking to pollinate them with whatever was on his mind. When he came to temporary rest next
to us, it was clear that the subject was the Boar’s Head Banquet.

  “So many of our contemporaries are hopelessly mired in the past,” he enthused. “And while, naturally, I yield to no one in my admiration for the glories of antiquity, we must also move with the times. I envision in the years, as they unfold, a roll call of the great and good …”

  His eyes flickered to where Janus Cain and his sombre entourage were the centre of a chattering group.

  “… and the indubitably interesting. And if my own poor contribution to this bold new tradition should happen to be recalled in some footnote …”

  “What is the significance of the Boar’s Head?” I asked. Over the Master’s head I could see an impassive Mycroft mouthing the word ‘Wildlife’.

  “Ah, now there I can claim a modicum of credit,” Overton enthused. “The serving of the boar’s head is normally associated with Christmas. As I’m sure you know, the custom derives from Norse mythology. Freyr, the god of peace and plenty, used to ride on the boar, Gullinbursti. At his festival the head of the boar was ceremoniously served to the gathering and a traditional carol sung. A picturesque concept, to be sure. But my concept was to adapt the ceremony to celebrate the peace and plenty of ideas, do you see? And, of course, the boar is a wild one hunted on our own estate. I shall be most interested to hear your views at the end of the evening, Mr. Holmes. And now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me …?”

  He buzzed away and soon we could hear him saying to the next group … “Now there I can claim a modicum of credit …”

  At that moment Oscar Wilde made his entrance. I use the word advisedly, for he posed in the doorway until everyone in the room was aware of his presence.

  He was dressed in red velvet from head to foot and wore a soft Renaissance style hat, which he now doffed as he gave a low, sweeping bow to the assembled gathering. When he was assured of their attention, he said—

  “It is always nice to be expected and not to arrive. But then, while I could deny myself the pleasure of talking, I could not deny to others the pleasure of listening.”

  The next moment he was in the midst of the crowd, greeting everyone as an old friend and acting as though we had all been invited to his party, which, in a way, we had.

  I looked across at Cain. It was obvious that he was not well pleased to have the attention taken away from him as completely as this and it was certainly not what he had become used to lately.

  I turned to say as much to Holmes and Mycroft, only to find them engaged in one of their typically elliptical conversations. In this case they were discussing Wilde …

  “Insecure …”

  “Frightened, even …”

  “Feet …”

  “The Law …”

  “Certainly. Angry …”

  “Now, come, gentlemen,” I said, “I know you like to play your little games for my bewildered benefit but will you please explain …”

  Holmes sighed. “Mr. Wilde is insecure today, as is evidenced by the fact that he has tied his brand new cravat several times before getting it to his satisfaction. The alternative creases are quite evident …”

  “As is the fact that he was careless with his shoes. The left is laced differently from the right—something a man of his fastidious manners would never normally permit …” Mycroft added.

  “And when one adds the fact that in shaving he has missed a small area at the corner of his mouth, the case for his lack of concentration is, I believe, complete.”

  “And the Law? And his being angry?” I interposed.

  Holmes continued, as though it were all perfectly obvious.

  “The paper—which has clearly, by its crumpled appearance, been thrust into his coat pocket—has the unmistakable look of a legal document. I would guess that its contents have so angered him that he straightway dashed off a reply. The ink on his fingers is clearly of recent origin and he does not strike me as a man who is normally in any way careless of his personal appearance, particularly when appearing in public. Ergo, he is involved in a legal matter of some urgent concern to him …”

  “Unless, of course, he has just dashed off another comedy. You of all people know what these writer fellows are, Doctor? I believe he has another one opening in a day or two, has he not?”

  There was the tapping of a fork on a glass and Overton called for attention. In a speech as carefully wrought as any of his classical texts he explained the raison d’être of the banquet—a story almost everyone in the room must have heard already in some detail.

  He then called upon his guests to grace our gathering with a few words. Just as he had introduced Cain, a college servant entered and plucked urgently at his sleeve. Apologising profusely, the Master left the room. For some reason this seemed to disconcert Cain, at whom I happened to be looking at the time. He murmured something to one of his acolytes, who also slipped unobtrusively away.

  Cain began to speak and it was fascinating the way he delivered essentially the same message but managed to tailor it to the susceptibilities of his audience. Instead of fire and brimstone, it was ironic intellectual speculation, liberally laced with literate quotations drawn from what I assumed to be the accepted texts of comparative religion. His audience responded to his performance as they would to that of a skilled actor.

  I turned to say as much to Holmes, only to find that he was no longer at my side. Nor, as far as I could determine, was he anywhere in the room.

  Cain was now moving into his peroration. Interestingly, he was no longer claiming to be God’s personal appointee for the wrath to come but the message was the same.

  The Apocalypse was upon us and the sound we could hear was that of the hooves of the First Horseman—Pestilence. Any moment now he would be in our midst. On that sombre note he ended.

  Now it was Wilde’s turn.

  And the man was amazing. Gone was the gadfly of the Cafe Royal. Among his intellectual equals he was on his mettle. And how he spoke. The voice was not loud but he played it like a cello, soft and liquid. He took ideas and played with them, tossing them up in the air, then discarding them.

  He picked up where Cain had left off and teased religion. While he admired those who could quote from the Bible at such length and possess the gift of tongues, was it not incredibly painful to speak in perpetual italics?

  He envied people who had religion, he really did. Unfortunately, he did not think he had one himself—he was an Irish Protestant … People were always worrying that their sins would find them out. “But it is when they find you in that trouble begins.” As for prayer—“Prayer must never be answered. If it is, it ceases to be prayer and becomes correspondence.” His own relationship with God he found to be a little sad. “One half of the world does not believe in God, and the other half does not believe in me.” In fact, he sometimes thought that God, in creating Man, somewhat over-estimated his ability …

  He turned his attention to Academia …

  “Education is an admirable thing,” he said seriously, scanning the room, “but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught … Examinations are of no value whatsoever. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him.”

  “The whole theory of modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately, in England, at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever. If it did, it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes, and probably lead to acts of violence in Grosvenor Square.” Then, more seriously, “We teach people how to remember, we never teach them how to grow.”

  What did he think of Cambridge? Someone shouted out.

  “It is the best preparatory school for Oxford that I know.”

  And Oxford?

  “The capital of romance—in its own way as memorable as ancient Athens. People say it is the home of impossible ideals and lost causes, for myself, I think that some of those causes have simply been temporarily mislaid …”

  And finally he c
ame back to this evening. He was touched that his old college had been so influenced by his as yet unproduced masterpiece, Salomé, that they should adopt the theme for their inaugural banquet but he sincerely hoped that they had taken care to exchange the head of the Magdalen Boar for that other Baptist bore, sometimes known as John!

  He touched precisely the right note for the gathering—playful but informed. Behind me I heard someone whisper—“They say he was the best talker Oxford ever heard”—and his companion reply—“Probably the best talker anyone has ever heard.”

  Wilde’s hearing must have been unusually acute for he heard them. “Ah, if only someone would teach the English how to talk and the Irish how to listen, what a world we should have …”

  Now the Bursar—in the Master’s absence—was asking us to move over to the Hall, where the banquet was about to be served. As the other guests began drifting out, I looked questioningly at Mycroft but it was obvious that he was as puzzled by Holmes’s disappearing act as I was. The room continued to thin until we had no alternative but to leave in our turn and hurry through the chill night air towards the beckoning lights of the Great Hall.

  If you live in a place it is inevitable that you eventually take it for granted but to me the room we entered was a revelation. High and vaulted with its ancient blackened beams, it spoke of generations of students, many of whom had shaped the world they inherited. Here they had sat down the centuries, just as we sat now, staring at the paintings of anonymous forebears and speculating on their lives and fortunes. This was part of the tradition Holmes and I—in our small way—were dedicated to defend.

  At dinner the two empty places on the High Table were as visible as missing teeth. In his opening remarks of welcome, The Bursar did his elegant best to excuse The Master’s absence. To which Wilde was heard to remark in a stage whisper—with a sidelong glance at Cain—that presumably the call of The Almighty outranked even that of The Master.