by David Marcum
“I have no doubt that his story was otherwise true, but on whose behalf is he pursuing miraculous powers? Brother Pius is following a most personal agenda.”
“To become a miracle worker? There is little chance of - Holmes, his eyes!” I said, recalling the piercing gaze. “There was something about his eyes.”
“Indeed. He is a student of mesmerism. I am pleased that you noticed.”
“Don’t be quite so surprised,” said I. “I’m not a complete bumbler.”
“Of course you aren’t. One day you might even learn the trick that turns observed fact into logical deduction.”
The Georgian town house that William Woodman kept in Stoke Newington was a grand affair, far beyond the meagre salary of a retired police surgeon. According to Holmes, diligence and a good inheritance had left him with the means to keep both his London home and a country garden in Exeter. Even before we reached the main door there was evidence of his horticultural prowess, with tall exotic plants obscuring its frontage with a display of variety and colour that would not have gone amiss at Kew.
The butler - a short and stocky man, with a thick grey beard and scarcely any hair - was so poorly blessed that his features brought to mind the philosopher Socrates, renowned for his ugliness. Perhaps the talk of Empedocles had brought this thought to mind, or perhaps it was the stark atrium that greeted us, alternately lined with exotic succulents and the marble busts of diverse philosophers in the manner of a public building rather than a private home.
“Impressive,” said Holmes as we were escorted up the grand staircase that led us to the doctor’s private rooms. “It would seem that Dr. Woodman receives a good number of guests here, and on a regular basis.”
The butler remained silent at Holmes’s observation, but the implication was clear - that Woodman conducted masonic rites at his home. Atop the stair, we were guided past a portrait of Woodman himself, dressed in full masonic regalia - something which drew an irritated tut from my companion. He looked quite regal adorned by the signs and symbols of his office, made more so by the splendid bifurcated beard that dominated his face.
Moments later, with our presence announced and the servant withdrawn, we stood at the heart of an impressive library. Its walls were lined with mahogany shelves that stretched from the floor to the ornate alabaster coving that skirted the ceiling. On the floor was spread a plush Turkish carpet, its chequered pattern broken up by a variety of motifs - compasses, levels, skulls, stars, and crosses - reflecting its owner’s passions. The shelves were well-ordered, with travelogues separated from historical and religious volumes. On the far wall I saw an impressive selection of Latin and Greek volumes - mostly esoterica and books of philosophy. Enough to momentarily draw my attention away from our host, with whom Holmes seemed to be making firm friends. Woodman was much like his painting, but portlier and thinner of hair, with bold white flecks peppering his beard. He dressed plainly, but well, and carried beside him an ornate cane which, somewhat garishly, was carved from ivory and topped with a silver skull and crossed bones.
Their handshake lingered, just enough for me to note its purpose, and I wondered if I would be aware had I not already been told of the doctor’s interests.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” the doctor greeted us warmly. “I have heard good things about you. Are you here to-”
“I shall not dwell on niceties, Dr. Woodman,” said Holmes. “We are here on a delicate matter, concerning a rare text believed to be in your possession.”
“Oh?” Woodman’s jaw dropped, clearly shaken by the statement. Composing himself, he stepped away from us, gesturing toward the shelves of his impressive collection. “As you can see, I own many books. Perhaps you can pick out the volume concerned.”
“This particular volume is not here,” said Holmes, perusing its contents. “Not in this room at least. Perhaps next door...”
“Next door? There is no adjoining room.”
“On the contrary, Doctor. While there are no visible doors, you appear to have chosen to adapt one of your shelves so that it may function as the entrance to the study that lies beyond. The shelf containing philosophy, I’ll venture.”
“How can you know that, Holmes?”
“Pile direction, Watson. A simple enough deduction.”
“I’m sorry?” I did not follow.
“The carpet. When one is cleaning carpets it is usual for dirt to be brushed in a single direction - towards the door, where it can be easily swept and collected. In this room, with but a single door, the direction of the carpet pile moves away, and one can see the cleaning strokes have created a unique pile direction, showing that dirt was swept towards a single point on the opposite side of the room - towards the door concealed behind ‘philosophy’.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Holmes,” said Woodman, his pleasant demeanour giving way to irritation. “While I commend your powers of observation, I fail to see how such impertinence can be excused. I welcome you as a guest, and in return you request - no, you demand - to be shown into a private part of my house. It is unbecoming of a brother-”
“Or of a gentleman. Indeed, Doctor, I must apologise. It is natural for a man of my profession to assert himself when he is being misdirected, and no offence was intended. If the text concerned is not available for examination or, indeed, for acquisition, then a polite refusal would suffice. I had assumed you would be more interested in negotiation.”
“Of course. I, too, apologise. I believe I know the text of which you speak, and I should indeed have declined your request.”
“Might I ask the name of the text?” Holmes asked.
“I’m sorry.”
“My client failed to name it. I was given such information as to confirm its identity on sight, but he neglected to reveal its title.”
“The black friar. Well, he is a persistent fellow, though I am surprised that compensation might be offered. His last attempt to obtain it involved harsh demands and the threat of eternal damnation.”
“No, I am not negotiating on behalf of the clergy.” That was news to me. Assuming it to be some subterfuge on Holmes’s behalf, I held my counsel. “My client merely wishes to keep the original safe. I take it that Frau Sprengel is a fiction, and that you own both the original document and its translation?”
“The Countess? Ha, I see. She is real enough. I was in her company when the friar last approached me. It was she who had the text translated.”
“On the Continent?”
“She operates out of Nuremberg,” Woodman confirmed, “but before we talk further, I must ask who it is you represent, Mr. Holmes?”
“I am not at liberty to say, other than that my client has held certain records since the dissolution of the monasteries during the time of Henry VIII.”
“So,” Woodman’s mood lightened, “am I to understand that you wish to acquire the book, but not for the friar?”
“You keep mentioning this friar,” said Holmes, bald-faced, “but who is he?”
“A client of Frau Sprengel, like myself.”
“A regular client?” Holmes pressed.
“Regular enough that I’ve seen him twice - once abroad and once here, in London.”
“Excuse me,” said I, desperate to catch up. “Why would a Latin-speaking friar need an English translation?”
“He seeks either edition,” said Woodman. “The Frau is a businesswoman with many clients. Her services are highly sought after, especially since-”
“-since the Italian Unification?”
“Quite so, Mr. Holmes,” said Woodman, turning his attention to the bookshelf and activating a concealed catch. “Please observe my rules. This is my private collection, and many items are of great personal value. I trust you have no interest in my translation?”
“It is yours to keep, Doctor, although I suggest you make another copy a
t the soonest opportunity. I suspect your friar will not give up its pursuit so easily.”
Swinging away from us, the concealed door opened onto a near identical room to the first, with equally full shelves. The singular difference was the floor. In place of carpet was polished parquet, and in the centre of the room sat a large table surrounded by chairs, suggesting that the chamber doubled as a private meeting room. A pile of books rested on the table, and it was to these that Woodman gravitated. Among them, wrapped within a velvet cloth, sat a hefty volume. Sliding it carefully across the table, the doctor gingerly eased back the covering to expose a large weathered binding, heavily dog-eared, with its spine barely holding it together.
“This,” said Woodman, “is the Ars Philosophica of Empedocles, itself a Latin translation from lost papyri.”
Holmes drew a magnifying glass from within the folds of his coat, leaning forward to examine the cover in more detail.
“There is an Index mark,” he said, “barely visible and of great age, but it confirms from whence the book came. Might I see the translation?”
Woodman gestured towards a second volume, and Holmes and I could see that it was a freshly bound copy of the original. Not just a documented translation, but a facsimile in which the Latin had been replaced with English.”
“So, Frau Sprengel is herself a bookbinder?”
“Of the highest quality. You did not know this?”
“I had my suspicions,” said Holmes. “Now, let us discuss terms on the original.”
Our hansom journey back to Baker Street was one filled with questions. Having held my tongue throughout our visit to Stoke Newington, I could barely contain my curiosity.
“Well played, Holmes,” said I, congratulating my friend on his acquisition, “but why did you purchase the book when the friar asked only for its whereabouts? And what was all that about another client?”
“It was no deception, Watson.” Holmes smiled thinly, patting his velvet-wrapped prize as he spoke. “I do indeed have a second client. Two in fact.”
“So Brother Pius Augustus-”
“Shall be told the whereabouts of the translation in due course, but he shall not know that we have the original document. We shall visit him presently.”
“How did you know Woodman had both copies?”
“I didn’t, but it follows that if you pay for a document to be translated you may have acquired that document first. When I realised that our friar had attempted to secure the book whilst in Europe, several of my suspicions were confirmed. What I can be certain of is that Brother Pius Augustus has no Papal approval.”
“How-”
“My work for the Vatican has been most discrete and, more importantly, could only be surmised from the various enquiries I have made in and around the secret archive. The Holy Father and I have a... personal understanding.”
“Great Scott, Holmes. You’re saying that the Pope himself is your client?”
“He is a client. Several years ago I travelled in Europe, and paid a visit to Rome. It was a difficult time. Tensions between Italy and the prisoner in the Vatican were strained, and my request to receive access to the Index Prohibitorum was unusual. Nevertheless, I was received by Cardinal Pecci, the Camerlengo of the Holy Roman Church, and we discussed my requirements at length. It turned out that he had been something of a detective himself. During his time as provincial governor of Benevento, he had rooted out an entire criminal conspiracy. Quite the policeman; and so he already had knowledge of me when my name crossed his desk.
“We struck up quite a friendship, and after three weeks we struck a bargain. I would receive an entry card to the secret archive, along with a retainer from the Cardinal, in exchange for certain services. These I perform sporadically, and in due course Cardinal Pecci became Pope Leo XIII.”
“So you acquired the book on his behalf?”
“After a fashion. The service I render is one of detection and retrieval, but - as I explained to Dr. Woodman - the book is not to be returned to the Vatican. Not yet, at least. Books have been disappearing from the archive for many years, but in 1870 the seizure of the Papal States saw many documents and works of art disappear, and Cardinal Pecci believed that an underground trade was in operation, and that the Vatican was no longer safe. A détente has been negotiated between the Anglican and Roman churches. Britain, as the dominant world power, is better placed to protect the world from those forces that might otherwise challenge the status quo, and has agreed to the secure storage of whatever papal treasures I uncover.”
“And the Freemasons?
“I have no view on the matter. It is true that Pope Leo has spoken out against them, but that is not my concern. I shall fulfil my obligation to the friar, and also my duty to the Pope. For now, Frau Sprengel of Nuremberg beckons, and I suspect I shall be gone for a number of weeks. If Woodman’s information is correct, she lies at the heart of the smuggling conspiracy, and I may enjoy some success in my continuing service to Rome.”
Upon our return to Baker Street, Holmes and I carefully packaged his prize, arranging for its delivery to a private establishment in Westminster. At the time, I attached no significance to the gentlemen’s club with which I would become acquainted in the years to come. Holmes then turned his attentions to some research and other correspondence, asking that I turn my own attentions to an account of our day thus far. It was not until after we had taken tea that, with the evening drawing close, we summoned a cab and paid a visit to Brother Pius Augustus.
“Why so late in the day?” I had asked.
“The Liturgy of the Hours, Watson. The habits of the clergy are quite strict, and I have timed our arrival to coincide with the commencement of Evening Prayers. That should give us a good half hour.”
We arrived at what appeared to be an abandoned premises in the heart of South Kensington. Abingdon House, the former Catholic University College. It had been bought up some years ago, having become an ivy-covered ruin, but the new owner, Monsignor Thomas Capel, had great plans, convincing the Archbishop of Westminster that it could provide a fee-paying education to those seminarians of wealthy families whose entry into Oxford and Cambridge had been forbidden by papal decree. Staffed by an eclectic mix of lay tutors ranging from the eccentric genius to the ethically corrupt, the experiment was a dismal failure. Beset by financial irregularities and scandals concerning the moral values of his students, Capel was removed as Rector in ‘78. Its tarnished reputation saw the College emptied of its remaining students. Whatever purpose it had since been put to, the building again looked sad and derelict, the ivy overgrown and a strange miasma infused the air around it.
“What is that awful smell?” said I as we passed through the gate.
“Fish-glue, I would hazard” said Holmes, sniffing the air cautiously, “and pickle liquor. Certainly nothing produced by decay or neglect.”
As we reached the threshold, Holmes struck three times upon a galvanized knocker, stepping back to wait on a response. It wasn’t long before we detected movement within, and the door was answered by a dishevelled youth dressed in a simple black soutane. I noticed that his nose was red and swollen, as if he had been in a fight.
“Hullo?” he said, staring vacantly into the air between us. “Welcome to the kingdom of the blind.”
Turning before we had acknowledged him, the youth disappeared into the house, pausing briefly to beckon us inside. Holmes and I exchanged glances before stepping into the dim atrium that lay within.
“I am Christopher,” said our guide, calling to us from the shadows. “You will excuse the darkness, I will light some candles.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes, calling ahead, “we are here for Brother Pius Augustus, I understand he is your rector.”
“Indeed, forgive me,” said Christopher, pausing to address us. “They are all at vespers. I was excused on account of
my...” he indicated his face, “...accident.”
“What happened?” Asked Holmes.
“Nothing,” said Christopher, feeling for a Lucifer and striking it. “I stumbled. We are all blind here, I’m afraid.”
“Why are you all blind? Is this seminary just for those who cannot see?”
“Indeed,” said the youth, as his candle flickered into life. “Our sightlessness is punishment for our sins, sir. Bad boys, we were, and now we’re doing our penance, hidden away from the eyes of those who would judge us.”
“What was your sin?”
“Bad science,” he joked, ushering us further into the house. “Please, sir, take the lantern, and I shall lead you to the rector.”
“What do you mean, bad science?” I asked.
“We didn’t do a very good job of distilling spirits,” explained Christopher. “We made some nasty liquor. It was a bad batch - methanol instead of ethanol - and it took our sight. The ones who weren’t blinded moved elsewhere, leaving we, the afflicted, behind. The church needs our money, so here we stay to complete our studies in the dark.”
“Forgive me,” said Holmes, “but you don’t sound very committed to your calling.”
“Oh, this is our best chance,” said the youth. “The rector tells us so. We were too young and reckless to be held to account, so indults were issued permitting us to pursue ordination in spite of our... disability.”
“And you can study the bible without seeing?” I asked.
“Not exactly,” Christopher grinned at the space between us, his pupils flicking uncertainly from side to side. “We are versed in the Braille system, but there are so few embossed books available. We get some sent over from America, and the rector provides the rest.”
As Christopher spoke, Holmes had studiously opened each door that we passed. We peered in as we slowly followed our guide. To the left-hand side were the classrooms, while to the right we saw rooms stacked with books, metal plates and mechanical equipment.
“You bind your own books, I see.”