by Ron Weighell
Holmes clapped his hands. ‘Better and better! I’m sorry, Dr James. I was speaking from my own point of view.’
Our client seemed a little out of countenance. ‘I know this must seem very trivial to you, Mr Holmes—hardly a matter of life and death . . .’
‘Not at all, doctor. I fear Watson’s flair for the melodramatic sometimes gives a false impression. I deal with many cases from which the element of crime is totally absent. The only criteria for acceptance are that the case should be unusual, and offer a real challenge to the deductive faculty. Yours fulfils these requirements in plenty. It has some very interesting features; the blank paper, for instance, is of the utmost significance.’
‘I confess it seems to me quite inexplicable.’
‘On the contrary, it is crystal clear, and leads me to conclude there is more to the case than meets the eye.’
‘Then you will give it some thought?’
‘Leave your notes with me. There is a question of some errant footwear to be sorted out—we cannot leave our poor Mr Rodgers to Lestrade’s tender mercies—and a little research will be necessary, so it may be a while before I can visit the scene of these curious events. Watson, are you prepared to undertake a short trip to Cambridge?’
‘Of course, Holmes.’
‘Then be so good as to pack for a stay of three nights, and accompany Dr James back to King’s. Learn what you can without making yourself conspicuous. Above all, lock the remaining blank leaves away without disturbing them. I will join you at the first opportunity. And take heart, doctor. We may yet bring this matter to an early conclusion.’
Within an hour Dr James and I had completed the cab journey to King’s Cross and were on a train racing through frozen countryside. Of the journey to Cambridge I need say little. James seemed in better spirits after Holmes’s words of encouragement, talking animatedly about the published accounts of our cases. I was surprised to learn that he was himself a writer of mysteries, though of the fictional, supernatural variety.
It was already dark, but the sky was clear, with the smell of snow on the wind, when we reached our journey’s end. Little time was lost in taking a cab to King’s College and making our way to Dr James’s rooms.
Here was the dwelling place of a prodigious scholar. Books were ranged two deep around the walls and stood in piles, interleaved with notes at points of reference. On the cluttered desk lay the few remaining sheets of blank paper, which we carefully locked in a drawer, as Holmes had requested.
‘I thought,’ said James, ‘that we might have our evening meal here. Even at this season there are sufficient residents in Hall to ask awkward questions, and enough avid readers of The Strand Magazine to make Dr Watson from London as instantly recognisable as Dr James from Cambridge was to Mr Holmes! Had you thought of a false identity?’
We talked the matter over as we ate, and decided that I was to be Mr Crossley, representing David Nutt with plans to publish a little book by Dr James on the subject of John Dee. This, we felt, would justify any questions I might ask concerning the Trinity papers.
Dr James was occupied with some College business early the next day, so it was late in the morning before we began our investigations at the Porter’s Lodge.
Fortunately, we found Mr Muir on duty. Dr James’s description of him as small and frail proved accurate, but he was not wanting heart. Despite a livid bruise on his right temple, he stood to attention, pigeon chest stuck out, and told us what he would have done to the intruder had they met on equal terms!
‘Did you get a look at him?’ I asked.
‘Not at all, sir—first I knew was when ’e struck me.’
‘Who left the message for me?’ asked James.
‘That I couldn’t say, doctor. It was found by Mr Clifford, and passed on to me in the course of events, so to speak.’
‘Well, go carefully, Mr Muir. That is a very nasty bruise.’
When we were out of earshot, James said, ‘Well, Dr Watson, that gets us no further. Let us see what our next port of call brings.’
We walked to Trinity Library under driving clouds, white with snow—it seemed not at all unlikely that there would be a blizzard before long—and entered through the north cloister.
My first glimpse of that wonderful interior left an indelible impression of magnificence. The immense proportions of its arcades, dully illuminated by winter light through many high windows; the rows of statuary depicting past luminaries; the great oaken bookshelves that lined, and broke out from, the walls, forming bays of bookish solitude—all combined to create a place perfectly adapted to the noble pursuit of Learning.
As we approached the desk, a thin, dapper individual of pallid aspect came forward and wished Dr James ‘good day’.
‘Good morning, Mr Biggs,’ said James. ‘I wonder if you could help us? Mr Crossley here has a professional interest in those Dee lists, and would like to know whether anyone else has studied them in the last few months.’
‘Funny you should ask that, Dr James. If you’d come to see me before this morning I’d have said only one other—an undergraduate Trinity man, I have the name here somewhere—yes—Crowley, Edward Crowley. Spent some time with the Dee material over the last few months. Very keen, he seems. Then, just today—not long ago—a white haired old gentleman with those long side-whiskers—what d’ye call ’em—Piccadilly Weepers—he took them for about half an hour or so. Eldred, the name was. He seemed to know Crowley by name. I thought the old gentleman might be his tutor, though I can’t say I recognised him.’
‘Thank you, Mr Biggs. Most helpful. Shall we go, Mr Crossley?’ As we departed, James gripped my arm.
‘Well, Dr Watson, what do you make of that? A definite clue, I think. You see, I happen to know that Dr Verrall is young Crowley’s tutor. Verrall has spoken of him. It seems he came here after some trouble at Oxford. He is by all accounts a gifted student, with a real flair for Latin and Greek, but something of a Decadent and a poet manqué: you know, adopts the fashionable Diabolism of Baudelaire, and dresses very foppishly. He told Verrall that God and the Devil had fought for his soul, and that he could not decide which had won! Remember that Verrall was mentioned in the message that decoyed me from my rooms! Could it be . . .?’
I nodded. ‘That Crowley and this other fellow, Eldred, are behind the theft? It is a distinct possibility. One may have delivered the note while the other waited to slip into your rooms.’
‘My thought exactly, Dr Watson. Would Mr Holmes object if we visited young Crowley’s rooms?’
‘He told us to learn all we could.’
‘Then let us go at once!’
It took but little time to locate the young undergraduate’s rooms. At our knock a voice called ‘enter,’ and we stepped into another world.
The contrast with Dr James’s Spartan quarters was very instructive. Books covered the walls and filled several revolving walnut bookcases; but this was more than a scholar’s workshop. Everywhere the eye fell upon tomes of obvious rarity and tremendous value. I had never seen so many sumptuous bindings: vellum, morocco, and calf, all glittering with heavy gold blocking and intricate decoration. Here was the collection of a bibliophile with the wealth to indulge his passion to the full. I noted, too, a well-worn ice-axe and a bag of fishing rods. Staunton chess pieces stood about a board. The heady aroma of incense mingled with the smell of books.
The young man who rose to greet us was even more remarkable. My readers will know that I had confronted powerful men before that date, and would do so after, but never have I felt so strongly a sense of immediate danger. From the comments of James, I had expected the silken shirt and floppy tie, the hands full of rings, heavy with semi-precious stones. I could not have anticipated the brooding, hypnotic eyes, determined jaw, and immensely powerful frame. He was, I now think, only a little over average height, but his erect, almost arrogant, carriage, and the bulk of his upper torso, created the impression of exceptional stature.
Dr James introduced
us, and explained about the supposed book on John Dee.
‘When Mr Crossley here heard that someone else had been studying the material at Trinity, he feared that another book was in production. I have explained that undergraduates have better things to do with their time, but he insisted we talk to you.’
Young Edward Crowley laughed. ‘You need have no fear, sir. I am not writing a book—not of that kind anyway, though I am the greatest poet since Shelley. No, the manuscripts at Trinity do not interest me in themselves. Oh, I did hope they might reflect his occult researches—so misunderstood by that clod, Casaubon—but as they do not, I have hardly glanced through them.’
‘Yet,’ I interrupted, ‘you have requested them on several occasions.’
Crowley gave me an odd look.
‘Yes, but not to study their contents. I see you are puzzled, gentlemen. Let me explain. I have recently discovered that I possess quite ‘remarkable psychic powers. You are probably not aware that we leave subtle impressions upon every object we touch. To hold such an object is to read its history. By holding manuscripts once written by Dr Dee, I seek to identify myself psychically with him.’
This seemed to me absolute madness, but young Crowley appeared to be completely sincere.
‘Though I can tell you little of the actual manuscripts,’ he went on, ‘I can tell you what Dee was wearing when he wrote them, describe the aspect of his library at Mortlake, and what thoughts were passing through his mind on certain days when he referred to them.’ He assumed a dramatic pose and added impressively, ‘I have even seen Queen Elizabeth when she visited him.’
I was now convinced that we were in the presence of a raving lunatic, but Dr James remained quite calm.
‘That is most interesting, but hardly relevant to the matter in hand. One other thing—there was a gentleman at Trinity library today, a man with long side whiskers . . .’
‘Mr Eldred? How strange that you should mention him!’
James shrugged. ‘He gave the impression that he knew you well.’
‘That was a little premature, as we did not meet until an hour ago! In fact, he left not long before you came. We played a game of chess. I am the best chess player in Britain, but he gave me quite an interesting contest. It took some little effort on my part to defeat him. In fact he spoke of the Dee manuscripts while we played!’
Crowley’s eyes narrowed, and his lips hardened into a cruel line. ‘You know, I begin to find this a little strange. One could be forgiven for thinking there is more to your visit than meets the eye.’
Clearly, Crowley was beginning to see through our little pretence. I rose and fastened my coat.
‘Well, we have wasted enough of your time, young man. I am satisfied that David Nutt will not be in competition with any rival publisher on this occasion. My mind has been set at rest. Shall we go, Dr James?’
Crowley gave me a penetrating look, then said, ‘I am glad I could help. Tell me, Mr—Crossley, did you say?—would you be interested in a volume of poetry? I am, as I told you, the best poet since Shelley.’
‘Unfortunately Mr Crossley does not deal with poetry,’ said James smoothly. ‘Another department.’
‘That,’ said Edward Crowley in a distinctly menacing tone, ‘is most unfortunate for him.’
Outside I breathed the clear air with some relief ‘Well!’ exclaimed James. ‘What did you make of that?’
‘I didn’t believe a word of it,’ I replied. ‘Psychic powers indeed! He’s hiding something, I’m sure.’
‘I thought so, too. He owns a copy of Trithemius, as well as Bacon’s De Augmentis Scientiarum and Selenius’s Cryptographia. Young Mr Crowley is obviously interested in the decipherment of secret documents!’
We walked back to King’s in a state of high excitement, weighing the possibility of actually solving the case without Holmes. However, a shock awaited us at Dr James’s rooms. For as we approached, it became evident that the door, which had been locked when we left, was now standing open. Creeping forward quietly, we peered in.
There, bending over the desk, was a hunched figure with long side-whiskers. Adjusting the grip on my stick, I stepped into the room and said, ‘Would you mind telling us what you are doing here?’
The old man turned slowly and leered at us with a rheumy insolence. The effect was unnerving.
‘I might ask you the same question,’ he piped, ‘Dr John H. Watson.’
I hefted my stick. ‘How do you know my name? Out with it, man! You will not leave this room until you have told us everything!’
‘Then,’ said the old man, straightening up and pulling off his whiskers, ‘I had better reveal myself, before you break my head!’
‘Holmes!’ I cried.
‘I’m afraid so, Watson. You can strike one suspect from your list. I apologise for the deception, gentlemen. It was not intentional, but my business in London was concluded sooner than I expected, and it occurred to me that I might undertake at least some of my investigation incognito. I must confess I have enjoyed being Mr Eldred!’
He began to remove his wig and make-up.
‘You have been with us every step of the way,’ said the crestfallen James. ‘Ahead of us, in fact.’
‘I got Crowley’s name from Biggs. A singular fellow, our Mr Crowley, who will one day make his mark upon the world. Whether it will be for good or ill, I cannot say. To play chess with someone is always revealing. I held a rearguard action against him for almost thirty minutes, but it was like crossing swords with a fencing master. A powerful mind!’
‘An unhinged mind,’ I corrected. ‘Do you know, Holmes, he thinks he has met Queen Elizabeth?’
Dr James quickly recounted the gist of our conversation. Holmes seemed uninterested. ‘These are matters quite outside my brief. There are enough mysteries to exercise my mind in the natural world, without confusing the issue with spooks.’
‘Talking of mysteries,’ said James. ‘Are you any nearer to a conclusion?’
Holmes seemed surprised by the question. ‘I had arrived at a conclusion before I left Baker Street, doctor. However, I have found the confirmation I needed. The manuscript is quite safe, and should be in your hands by Christmas Eve.’
‘You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that, Mr Holmes. But how could you have solved this so soon?’
‘You handed me a pretty problem, I’ll admit, but it offered obvious possibilities. The first clue was the blank paper.’
‘So you said, but what could that tell you?’
‘That this was not merely the theft of a manuscript. Do you have the remaining pages? Good, let us examine them.’
Taking up a pencil, Holmes gently shaded over the topmost sheet. The imprint of words began to show through. Holmes read them aloud.
‘“Building a house—Vitruvian—five-panel square mnemonic?—Fiery Messengers——” As I thought. Whoever stole the manuscript took the time to copy your notes.’
‘But why not just take the notes themselves?’
‘A good question. Because he did not wish you to know that they were of interest to him. Clearly you had stumbled upon some clue of which you yourself were unaware.’
‘Clue? Clue to what?’
‘That brings us to another point which interested me: the nature of your original discovery. You commented that the gummed pages yielded with surprising ease. I wondered why that should be, when they had held for centuries. There seemed to me one likely answer—that yours was not the initial discovery. My brief examination of the material this morning confirmed the hypothesis. There were two other pages with faint signs of having been gummed back to back. So someone had already found one hidden sheet, and stolen it. On the same, or a subsequent occasion, he began to open the other pair of gummed pages, but was interrupted, and pushed the joint back together. Then you came along, discovered the second sheet, informed the staff, and arranged to borrow it. Using that very apposite Kelly hoax, the thief retrieved the other half of his puzzle, coolly picking your
brains as he did so!’
‘But why go to so much trouble over a few lines of ritualistic nonsense? The value of those pages is surely academic rather than financial. And even academic rivalry rarely descends to the level of physical assault and robbery!’
‘You are forgetting young Crowley,’ I said. ‘Surely he has taken them in order to perform this ritual of the Fiery Messengers. He admitted that his initial interest in the Dee material was occult.’
‘That is true, Watson, but consider another possibility. You, Dr James, told us with admirable succinctness of your Art of Memory hypothesis; it certainly fitted the facts, but it is possible to be too erudite: to see complexity where it does not exist. Think of that Biblical quotation about building a house, coupled with Vitruvian architectural designs. Dee was a Cambridge man through and through. Can you think of a building not far from here which represents the epitome of Vitruvian architectural principles?’
Dr James threw up his hands. ‘Good heavens! King’s College Chape!’
‘Quite so,’ said Holmes drily. ‘And in the light of that, does not this cryptic “ritual” with its circles, arcs, and crosses, rather suggest a way of locating something hidden in the Chapel? It would not be the first time such a document has lent itself to such a solution, eh, Watson?’
‘The Musgrave Ritual!’ I exclaimed. ‘I had quite forgotten!’
‘If this case has taught me anything,’ rejoined Holmes, ‘it is that a consulting detective ought to know everything, and remember everything! Well, Dr James, are we to solve this puzzle?’
‘There is nothing I would like more, Mr Holmes, but the thief is now in possession of all the clues. He has the advantage of that other page.’
‘Yet, we are three, doctor, and we have your great ecclesiological knowledge at our disposal. Now, I suppose you can lay your hands upon a ground plan of the Chapel? Good—and as the creator of this mystery was an authority on Euclid, it is perhaps fitting that we will also require rule, compasses, and ink for a little geometry. The time has come for a guided tour of King’s College Chapel.’