The White Worm

by Sam Siciliano

  Sloap nodded. “Yes. Sir Nathaniel participates in their ceremonies.”

  Holmes sat back and shook his head. “Does he! How interesting. And this group—I suppose they meet at night at Diana’s Grove. They must wear white robes, march with torches in a procession, then sacrifice a beast.”

  Sloap nodded. “Exactly, Mr. Holmes. Ridiculous, isn’t it, in this day and age? I have tried to ignore it, but finally, the Sunday before last, I gave a sermon on the evils of paganism.”

  “Do you have any idea who might be behind all this?”

  “I do not. There is a red-haired high priestess who conducts the ceremonies. She is clearly in charge, but my parishioner did not recognize her. He is a sociable chap who knows everyone, so this priestess must be a stranger or someone who rarely goes out in public.”

  Holmes frowned. “Red-headed? But not Lady Verr—or her niece?”

  I shook my head. “It cannot be Miss Marsh. That is impossible.”

  “No,” Sloap said. “My parishioner would have recognized either of them. The Marsh family has a certain historical notoriety. The Marsh ‘daughters’ are obvious suspects, but those two are not involved.”

  Holmes tapped impatiently at a doily pinned to the end of the sofa arm. “All the same…” He shook his head. “I agree with you, Vicar. How can supposedly civilized people of the nineteenth century bring themselves to put on white robes, march over to a local grove and slaughter farm animals? One would hope we were long past such nonsense. I suppose the ceremonies correspond with… the phases of the moon, or…”

  “Very good, Mr. Holmes!” Sloap exclaimed.

  Holmes rubbed at his chin. “The solstices and the equinoxes would be significant as well. Summer, autumn, winter, spring.” His brow furrowed. “And certain other ancient traditional dates—such as 1 May, May Day. It’s only about a week away now. It is still commemorated with festivities.”

  “Dancing round the maypole,” I said.

  “There is something planned for May Day,” the vicar said. “Something special.”

  “What might that be?”

  “I do not know, Mr. Holmes. However, my source tells me the priestess has told them they must truly dedicate themselves to the worm and the goddess it represents once and for all if they wish to participate.”

  “This does seem nonsensical,” I said.

  Holmes tapped again at the sofa arm, savagely this time. “Do you think they would go so far as human sacrifice, Vicar?”

  At this, Sloap, who was sipping his sherry, choked, gasped, and then coughed wildly. He took another swallow of sherry. It was a minute or two before he recovered. “I don’t know, Mr. Holmes! Dear Lord, I never imagined… Cattle and sheep are bad enough. These people are only playing a game. It is common enough, this desire to dress up in special clothing, to light torches and chant, to participate in ancient rituals and mumbo jumbo about gods and goddesses.”

  I reflected that he might also be speaking of the Roman Catholic or high Anglican Church.

  “I cannot believe they would be a party to such a thing,” Sloap said. “They could not be so wicked!”

  “I wish I shared your confidence, Vicar. People are easily led astray, especially in groups.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Do they sacrifice the animals with a knife or…?”

  Sloap shook his head grimly. “No. They push them into the pit. I could forgive the slaughter if it were quick, but such cruelty! No, no, that is what makes it all more than just some game of charades.”

  Holmes nodded. “Yes.” He sipped his sherry, winced once at the taste, then glanced at the vicar, who was luckily preoccupied. Holmes held his breath for an instant, then swallowed the last of it. “This has been very helpful. Henry and I shall be staying at Diana’s Grove for a few days. If you should hear anything more—especially about May Day—please send for me at once.”

  “Of course, Mr. Holmes. I feel more comfortable just knowing you are at hand.”

  “How long have you been at Micklethorpe, Vicar?”

  “I am starting my third year.”

  “So you did not bury Miss Marsh’s parents?”

  “No, only her grandfather.” He shook his head. “Poor girl. I wish I could do more. When someone is swallowed up in darkness, it is hard to even imagine the light.”

  “Lady Verr is not a churchgoer, I suspect.”

  Sloap shook his head sternly. “No, even though I have twice invited her. Each time she has assured me she will come, but she has yet to set her foot in this church. Earlier, her absence at her father’s funeral was conspicuous.”

  “I heard that he died quite suddenly.”

  “That is true. But she has never, to my knowledge, even visited his grave—unlike Miss Marsh, who stops by frequently.”

  “Everyone seems to find Lady Verr charming and beautiful.”

  “She is that, Mr. Holmes. Nevertheless, I am not sure that she is… good.”

  Holmes smiled. “You are a perceptive man, Vicar.”

  “I try to be. Would you care for more sherry?”

  I bounded to my feet even faster than Holmes, but he spoke first. “No, no, excellent though it is—we must be on our way.”

  We stepped outside. The sun was much lower in the sky, its bright light with a yellowish cast. I shook my head. “This is becoming truly bizarre.”

  “I said you had been good luck for me, Henry. This is indeed the third remarkable case which has begun with you nearby and a knock on the door at Baker Street.”

  I shook my head. “At least no one has died so far while we are on this case.”

  Holmes laughed grimly.

  “Oh no! What are you thinking?”

  “Have you forgotten that Evans has gone missing?”

  I felt a brief quiver of fear square in my chest, a sensation I had not felt since our visit to Dartmoor. “Oh, dear Lord.”

  We were on the tiny cobblestone road which wound through the village. Holmes took a few steps, then turned toward the graveyard. A huge elm rose amidst the scattered crosses, the rectangular and rounded tombstones. Its bright green new leaves contrasted with the dark grass and with the aged gray stone often blotched by patches of dark lichens.

  “Let us have a look,” Holmes said. He walked slowly forward, gazing at the various headstones, noting the names and dates. I saw a small stone for a child who had lived only two years, a simple sort of tragedy which I always found inexplicable. The newer stones were elaborately carved with curving crosses and flowers, while others were simple rough-shaped slabs with only worn chiseled names and dates. The oldest I saw was from the seventeenth century. In the shade of the elm, the air was cool and faintly damp with a wet, earthy smell.

  “Here we are.” Holmes extended his stick toward a new-looking headstone, its reddish tint typical of the local sandstone. He took off his hat, then eased his breath slowly out.

  On it was “in loving memory” and the names Robert Marsh and Jane Marsh, along with their dates of birth and death. Both had died in their forties. Next to it was another stone, gray and more worn, with the names Herbert Marsh and Rebecca Marsh. The grandfather had lived over twenty years longer than his wife. I sighed softly. Perhaps it was my profession that made me think about mortality, but even the idea that I might live that much longer than Michelle was unbearable.

  “The Marsh family is well represented here.” Holmes’s mouth tightened, then he raised his stick and swept a half-circle in the air, encompassing much of the cemetery. “This is what it is all about, Henry.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “These are the stakes, the ultimate stakes, for which I play. It isn’t always that way, thank God, but often enough, if I lose, my clients end up underground, leaving me with the worst possible remorse.”

  “We all make mistakes.”

  “Yes, but we do not all make fatal mistakes. That, however, is occasionally my lot. A visit like this reminds me of my responsibilities.”

  I shook my head. “You cannot solv
e all the crimes in the world.”

  “No, but I can take responsibility for those in which I blunder badly.” His mouth was stiff, his eyes fixed on the gravestones. “Which is… all too often.”

  I shook my head. “You mustn’t think that way—you mustn’t.”

  He said nothing for a long while. Finally he put his hat back on and smiled wearily. “It is a reminder, all the same. I do not want Miss Marsh or Mr. Selton to end up here—at least not for many decades. No, I want them in there.” He raised his stick to point to the rough stone wall of the church with its tall, narrow windows.

  “So do I.” My smile faded. “You do think this is another dark case.”

  He nodded. “I do. This business with the worm and Druids and all that has a faintly comical air, as if we were dealing with some twisted prankster. But I fear there is more to it than that. However, enough moody reflections. I will quote Gray’s Elegy, which I always recall in a setting like this—‘the paths of glory lead but to the grave’—and then we must lift up our spirits and be on our way.”

  Once we were back in the sunlight, I shivered slightly. “I am glad we are above ground.”

  “Yes, Henry.” He gave a soft laugh. “For now, anyway.”

  We stopped briefly at Lesser Hill. Evans had not returned, nor had anyone seen him the night before in the village.

  Six

  Before dinner, Lady Verr insisted on showing us her reptile and amphibian collection. Delilah, the Burmese python, was the grand attraction. If you could get past the fact she was a giant snake (which I could not), she was rather beautiful. Her scaly skin had an elaborate pattern of dark brown on tan, with black and yellow highlights. Lady Verr had other creatures in her collection: a lizard that she called a “bearded dragon”, bright red and yellow, his “beard” spiky frills under his chin; a big turtle with a brownish-yellow shell that was divided up into lumpy squares about two inches wide; and a grotesque-looking green-and-black toad, his eyes perched like big marbles atop his skull. The room was kept warm with a constant coal fire, and it had a rank, disgusting, animal smell. There was also a glass terrarium full of enormous beetles who were destined to become the other animals’ main course at future meals. Rabbits and mice were also raised in a nearby room.

  Although I found the animals repulsive and the whole notion of keeping such a menagerie frightful, I managed to feign some enthusiasm. It did make me appreciate our cat, Victoria, all the more! Arabella obviously enjoyed picking up the creatures and touching their leathery or slimy skin, but I preferred a warm-blooded animal with lustrous fur. Holmes seemed genuinely interested, and I hoped this was not giving him ideas. I could only imagine how Mrs. Hudson might react to a pet reptile! They had had a long battle over a spider that had spun its web on one corner of his desk; in the end, the arachnid had died a peaceful death of age or some spider illness.

  A good dinner along with three glasses of excellent claret helped me to forget the zoo. Hamswell again served us. A big burly type with balding pate and bushy brown beard, he did look odd in his black tail coat, white bow tie and white gloves, almost comical. As he ladled out the soup, I also noticed his enormous hands and thick fingers. Of course, having a male servant as opposed to a woman wait at the dinner table was a mark of higher class and status, something which would doubtlessly concern Lady Verr. Hamswell was assisted by Mrs. Troughton, now wearing her lacy white apron and cap with her black dress. There seemed to be a certain froideur between the two of them. Moreover, she always had a certain cold hard edge whenever Lady Verr was around.

  Arabella was again monopolizing Holmes, so I chatted with Diana. She seemed to enjoy my company, but in her own shy way. I realized she must have had very little contact with any men besides her father and Adam Selton. She was amazed to hear that Michelle was a physician and had many questions. She was also interested in our courtship and marriage, but the little I told her obviously did not fit with her romantic ideas. Michelle and I had both been older and wary. However, our reluctance was soon consumed in the roaring fires of passion. Of course, I could not tell Diana that.

  We had gone to the drawing room, and she held the stem of a small glass of port in her long, white fingers. Her hands were thinner and bonier than Michelle’s, although almost as large. Her knuckles stood out, and below them were faint blue veins, then the darker blue silken cuffs. Both she and her aunt had obviously taken considerable care with their dinner attire. Diana was in a sky-blue dress with the popular mutton-leg sleeves, her red hair worn up and emphasizing her long slender neck. Arabella wore an ivory-white dress set off by the same spectacular emerald necklace which matched her spectacle lenses and two tiny emerald earrings. She had, however, dispensed with the bustle, which meant she could sink back into the depths of the sofa. Her face had grown redder throughout the day, and by tomorrow I knew the skin of her nose would begin peeling.

  Diana sipped the brilliant ruby liquid, then lowered the glass. Her perfect brow was creased, her green eyes fixed on me. “Does one know, Dr. Vernier? Did you know? Was it always obvious that she was the one?”

  I smiled faintly. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  She sighed, obviously disappointed.

  “It took us both a while, but there came a time when I did know, when I was certain at last.”

  “What happened? What changed?”

  Again, this was a loaded question, one I could not answer directly, especially since Arabella had paused and was listening as well. “Well, I… It was a brief separation that made me realize how much she had come to mean to me. I went to Paris with Sherlock on a case, and I missed her terribly.”

  Diana’s brow was creased, her eyes fixed on me with the utmost concentration. “Yes?”

  I shrugged. “People are different. Michelle and I were cautious. We had had some unfortunate experiences earlier.”

  “Unfortunate experiences? What do you mean?”

  “Romantic entanglements which did not work out. Ones that ended badly, to put it more plainly.”

  “Oh, I see.” She drew in her breath slowly. “I’m not by nature cautious. But… but Adam is.” She looked worried. “Sometimes I just do not understand him. I think—I know he likes me—but I just don’t know if…” Her words trickled away into silence.

  Arabella leaned over to grasp her wrist and squeeze it. “We will come up with a campaign to conquer him, you will see! Men never know what they truly want. It is up to the woman to make them understand. But really, it does not help to be so fixated on one person! My dear, I do hope it works out for you, but at your age, you must never make any man the be-all and end-all of your affections.”

  Her niece said nothing, but her eyes began to glisten.

  Arabella shook her head. “No, no—don’t do that. How can we talk intelligently about these matters if you cannot…?”

  Diana clenched her fists, her discomfort obvious. “I don’t want to talk about it—I don’t!”

  “But nothing will ever be resolved if we cannot discuss things in a rational manner.”

  I could see that the young lady was becoming upset. “Miss Marsh,” I said, “he does care about you. I know he does. You must be patient with him.”

  She swallowed once, the corners of her mouth flickering upward, even as her skin seemed to glow. “Does he?”

  Holmes had been listening, and he nodded. “He does, Miss Marsh. Henry is correct. Mr. Selton has certain difficulties which are preoccupying him, but you are clearly much in his thoughts.”

  She opened her mouth, closed it, said, “Good.” She was clearly so moved she did not trust herself to say anything more. She smiled at Holmes, then at me, and again I had the same feeling as the day before when she looked up at me after I had put my coat over her naked shoulders: I had made a friend for life. I smiled back and thought how ridiculously young she was, how messy and complicated and dreadful affairs of the heart were, even under the best of circumstances, even when everything ultimately ended well.

  Lady
Verr sighed softly. “When I first saw him, I knew Cyril was the man for me. He was rich, charming and handsome, but he hardly noticed me. The next time we met I wore a gown which showed off my shoulders and a certain décolletage. That caught his attention, and it did not wane for many years. I loved him very much. We had our good times together. However, he gradually became someone completely different from the man I married—in the end, he was truly a monster, albeit a pitiable one. And his appearance—he also declined physically, becoming increasingly corpulent. There are never any guarantees, my dear. People change, often for the worse.”

  Miss Marsh resolutely shook her head. “I will not change. I will always…” She realized she could not actually say aloud that she loved him. “I will not change, I swear it.”

  Arabella shook her head. “You cannot stop time. Everything changes. Everyone changes. Nothing stays the same.”

  “Some things do.”

  Arabella shrugged. “Yes, but human emotions are the most volatile of elements. Still, my own situation has undoubtedly prejudiced me to expect the worst. Adam Selton could hardly turn out so badly as Cyril.” She turned to Holmes. “You are quiet, sir. Have you ever been consumed by the flames of amour, or is Sherlock Holmes too sensible, too rational, to be ensnared by a mere woman?”

  Holmes stared coolly at her. “You may wish to share the intimate details of your life with strangers, madam. I do not.”

  “Ah, touché indeed! However, I suspect if you were truly that rational misogynist portrayed by Dr. Watson, you would not hesitate to proclaim it proudly. Your response makes me suspect the worst.”

  “You may speculate to your heart’s content.”

  She laughed. “Spoilsport! Very well, no more such questions.”

  Before we retired to our rooms, Lady Verr insisted on showing us the library. The large room on the second floor had a certain masculine air, a dark table and chairs with padded leather seats, shelves of dark-stained wood lined with books. On half of the shelves were novels, both serious works and those which were mere entertainment: Walter Scott, Dickens, Trollope, the Brontës, and George Eliot were well represented, but also Wilkie Collins and H. Rider Haggard. One title by Haggard caught my eye, and I pulled it out: She. I shook my head and slid it back.