THE IRREGULAR CASEBOOK OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

by Ron Weighell

  ‘For some years, as a result, I have also been actively involved in the Society for Psychical Research, to which I was introduced, as it happens, by Dr Watson’s editor, Arthur Conan Doyle. I have attended séances and given lectures on these matters. On occasion we have tested the powers of self-styled psychics, witches, and practitioners of theurgy.

  ‘Last month I received a letter asking if I would like to attend a ceremony of magic. The terms were that I was to go blindfolded, in a closed carriage. As an observer I would be allowed to conceal my identity with a mask, if I wished. I agreed to this, and on a certain evening was taken to a house somewhere in London.’

  ‘You are sure it was in London?’ interjected Holmes.

  ‘The journey was hardly long enough to reach anywhere else. I was taken to a house where my blindfold was removed to reveal that I was seated in a room among other masked men and women. The room was lined with dark stone and hung with crimson curtains. The participants were clothed in robes and cowls of purple.’

  Mycroft took a drink.

  ‘It soon became clear that this was quite different in nature from any of the other demonstrations I had attended, and that the ritual we were watching was obscene and blasphemous in the extreme. There was a blood sacrifice of an animal, and other terrible things. I was clearly present at a Satanic Mass.’

  ‘Ah Mycroft,’ muttered Holmes, ‘you have been foolish—very foolish.’

  ‘Do you think I need to be told that! It was not long before the real significance of that evening was made known to me. At first I received a communication to the effect that my presence at the ritual would be made public if I refused to cooperate with them. It was suggested that general knowledge of my attendance at this ritual would not be compatible with my professional standing.

  ‘I had allowed myself to become the victim of a blackmailer. There was nobody to blame but myself I had stupidly allowed myself to be tricked into a compromising position. My career, and the good name of my family, were at stake. I expected that demands for money would follow, but when they contacted me to tell me what was required in return for their silence, I had a shock. I was told that the “payment” was to use my power to find a writer called Arthur Machen and to discover what he knew about The Three Impostors, Ixaxar, and something called The Black Heaven.

  ‘I had to be circumspect. It was not as if I could simply approach you. My first move was to familiarise myself with your works. It soon became apparent that your forté was mystery. It seemed to me that I might be able to intrigue you by your own methods, and extract the information from you that way. I paid people to mutter words from your stories as they passed. Then, you will remember, there was the gentleman in the pub who sought to draw you out on the matter of The Black Heaven. Nothing worked. I decided that there was no choice but to become involved in the matter myself. I sent the message that would bring you to the house. My plan was to get the information I sought by threats or, if all else failed, an honest appeal. Sherlock and Dr Watson made their dramatic entrance before I had even begun.’

  ‘It was a pity you did not tell me of all this,’ said Holmes.

  ‘I was warned to keep the matter to myself and, to be honest, I was embarrassed. I had done a very stupid thing, and I know your stance on psychical matters. Besides, what was being asked of me seemed a trivial thing, and of no danger to anyone. I must say, I rather enjoyed arranging it all. During that time I tried to use my influence to find anything I could about the identity of my blackmailer. I have found nothing. Whoever it is, he is careful to work through agents at every step.’

  Holmes prodded the fire and threw the poker into the grate with a clatter that must have awoken every member of the Diogenes Club from their slumbers.

  ‘The way forward is clear enough, is it not? The answers to both your problems lie in the unmasking of this mystery blackmailer who is so concerned with Mr Machen’s degree of knowledge concerning The Black Heaven. Mad or sane, he is a danger to you both, of that I am sure. Remember, Watson, the case of the Glasgow Hell Club. Those who will not stop at The Black Mass do not draw the line at any kind of violence, even murder. I shall have to find the identity of this man, if man it is.’

  Mycroft spoke up. ‘It is only right that I should do everything I can to help. I feel partly responsible.’

  ‘Is there anything you can remember that might be of use in identifying the men who passed the messages to you?’

  ‘Nothing that I can think of, except that, despite being tough, tattooed individuals, all of them, by chance, wore—of all things—silk scarves.’

  ‘Then,’ said Machen, ‘they were costermongers. The silk scarves, called King’s Men, are the sign of identification among them. May I make a suggestion? I have undertaken a study of these admirable people, and know a great deal concerning their secret language and signs. If you are willing, Mr Holmes, to use your powers of disguise to our advantage, we might see what a couple of costermongers could learn from their compatriots on the street.’

  Holmes pondered a moment, then nodded.

  ‘It is worth a try, if you are game.’

  Machen rubbed his hands together.

  ‘I should warn you that it may be necessary to drink great quantities of beer!’

  Over the next few days, Holmes and Machen disappeared on to the streets of London, each covered in wonderfully convincing tattoos and bearing the silk scarf that was the sign and symbol of the strange London tribe. Mycroft pursued his own lines of enquiry and I tried unsuccessfully to concentrate on my practice. The mystery, however, was never far from my thoughts.

  We were all due to meet up again at Baker Street after three days had elapsed. Mycroft turned up frustrated at his lack of progress. Holmes and Machen should have been there but, as the hours passed, Mycroft became worried.

  ‘Doctor, this is not like Sherlock; not at all.’

  It was evening before the door burst open and Holmes strode in and flung himself into a chair.

  ‘Machen is gone. We were getting on famously as costermongers, playing “all fives” and cribbage, and even penetrating the inner sanctum of the “twopenny hop”. Machen really is rather a good actor when he lets himself go. It was a ticklish business asking questions in such an atmosphere, but we had pulled off the impersonation so well that we were pretty popular, and I felt in control. In fact we were enjoying ourselves so much that I let myself fall asleep.

  ‘We were approached a few hours ago by a man who claimed he could take us to someone with information. I should have been on my guard from the first, but he seemed genuine enough. He led us to an alley where the meeting was to take place. I suggested that Machen wait in the street, thinking he would be safer there, while I went alone with the man into the alley.

  ‘When we got to the end, the man shinned over a gate and ran off. I realised at once that it had been a ruse to separate us, and ran back to find only a silk scarf on the ground, where Machen had doubtless managed to leave it as a sign.

  ‘Some passing merry-makers told me that my friend must have been drunk, because they had just seen him helped into a carriage and driven away. I can only suppose that word had got back about our questions, and Machen had been identified. Their patience would appear to have run out. They have taken him, because I went to sleep.’

  ‘What can we do?’ I asked.

  ‘That is a good question, Watson. Could we search the whole of London? He might have been taken anywhere, for any purpose. I fear the worst.’

  A grim time followed, with Holmes and Mycroft both quite disconsolate. I arranged for Mrs Hudson to supply some sandwiches, but neither man could touch them. Holmes was the first to show signs of animation.

  ‘Mycroft, the only link we have with these people is your visit to the house of the Black Mass. Do you remember when we were children, there was a game we used to play on long carriage journeys?’

  ‘You mean, “Journey in the Dark”?’

  ‘That’s right. One of us would close
our eyes and try to keep track of the turns in the road and by this, and the sounds we heard, guess our destination. You were almost as good at it as me.’

  ‘I was better, but you are wasting your time. I tried to memorise my route, and it worked up to a point, but I became confused.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘At the outset I did well. There was an attempt to confuse me by weaving in and out of the same streets around our point of departure, but luckily there was a barrel organ there, and we passed it more than once. I knew it was the same one because there was a curious reedy tone to the top notes that was instantly recognisable.

  ‘When they eventually stopped trying to disorientate me and made their direct way, I counted off the turns and distances and I think I could find my way that far. But then the carriage seemed to leave the road and travelled on grass, or some such substance. No turns, no sounds, and absolutely silent wheels. By the time we rattled back on to a metalled road we could have been anywhere. I would guess that we had cut across some parkland, but it was impossible to get any idea of direction.’

  Holmes was unwilling to let the matter rest at that. ‘Between us we may do better. A closed carriage, you say? Let us enlist the aid of a driver who owes me a favour, and who will not be averse, in exchange for a few coins, to humouring our whims. It may be a slim hope, but it is our only one.’

  Within the hour we were seated in a closed carriage, with Mycroft blindfolded as an aid to concentration. We left out the circuitous attempt to confuse, and picked up the route where Mycroft felt it had set off in earnest.

  ‘This is the point where we passed that barrel organ for the second time. We then went on for twenty seconds and took a right turn. Take the next left immediately, then go straight on for a minute.’

  So he went on, untangling, with the aid of his prodigious memory, the twists and turns of his dark journey. Eventually we arrived at a place where he signalled us to stop.

  ‘It was around here that we suddenly seemed to leave the ground altogether. At least, our journey became completely silent.’

  ‘There is a stretch of parkland just ahead,’ I observed. ‘The carriage might have crossed it at any angle and emerged on to the road at any point.’

  ‘Then our effort ends here, just as I feared,’ said Mycroft.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ replied Holmes, peering out at a nearby street sign. ‘There are interesting things to be found in newspapers, Mycroft, as you would know if you deigned to read anything but the political pages. For example, are you aware that we appear to be at the end of the street where the much loved music hall entertainer, Charlie Chips, passed away quite recently?’

  Mycroft shook his head with exasperation.

  ‘How very interesting and informative, Sherlock.’

  ‘Yes, it is. Particularly as he was busy dying on the very night you were taken on your dark journey! A much loved man, as I said.’

  He waited, as though he expected Mycroft to draw some conclusion from his words. When he did not, Holmes smiled with quiet satisfaction and went on: ‘I would not be surprised to find that the local community had eased his final hours by muffling the sounds of the passing traffic with straw spread on the road.’

  ‘By God, Sherlock, you are right! That was why the wheels of the carriage were silent.’

  Holmes leant out of the window. ‘Carry on, driver. See, wisps of straw still in the gutter,’ he added with quiet satisfaction.

  Once the street was passed, Mycroft was able to recall enough of the conclusion to his journey to bring us to a halt in a street of imposing houses.

  ‘We alighted from the carriage on the left,’ said Mycroft, ‘and it was only four paces to the house.’

  ‘So it must be a house on this side of the road,’ Holmes observed.

  ‘And we mounted five steps to the front door.’

  ‘Then it was not this part of the street. Go on, driver. See, we are now coming to houses that have five steps. It must be around here.’

  ‘I remember that the steps rang hollow as we climbed them.’

  Holmes nodded and directed our attention to the houses. ‘As you see, every house has what is called an area, below ground level, with a door to the kitchens, which lies under the entrance stairs. That would explain why the stairs rang hollow.’

  ‘They did not ring a bell, but struck a knocker.’

  ‘It is highly likely that they would have used a bell had there been one. It would have made less noise outside, and attracted less attention to you in your blindfold. So we may be looking for a house that has no bell pull, but has a door knocker much used.’

  ‘Most of these houses have bell pulls,’ I observed. ‘Except for the one back there.’

  ‘And it does have a large door knocker.’

  ‘Watson, be so good as to test it out. If anyone answers, ask directions to—oh, let us say Hamilton Square. That should be far enough away to make you seem hopelessly lost.’

  I approached the door and knocked. At the third attempt it became clear that no one would answer. I returned to the carriage.

  ‘The street seems quiet,’ said Holmes. ‘Let us step over and descend into the area. I have my locksmith’s roll with me. It looks like a case of breaking and entering for us.’

  We descended as quickly and quietly as we could. Holmes worked the lock on the door under the stairs. After a few seconds it gave with a click.

  ‘Close to my record, Sherlock,’ whispered Mycroft.

  Holmes grunted.

  ‘Equal, I think.’

  We entered the below stairs rooms and made our way through a cold deserted kitchen, bare pantries, and wash rooms. The ground floor proved no more populous or inviting. By the time we had reached the attic rooms it was obvious that the house had been deserted for some time.

  ‘We may be in the wrong house,’ I conceded.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Holmes, as we descended the stairs, ‘but it fits the bill so well. I confess I was hoping we might have found Mr Machen and solved at least one of our problems. But there are still secrets that this house might give up. Have you observed anything about the smell of must and stale air?’

  ‘There is no such smell,’ said Mycroft testily.

  ‘Precisely! from which fact I would deduce that this house is aired too regularly to be completely empty.’

  By this time we had reached the ground floor. Holmes stood in the hall, a finger to his brow.

  ‘This is the house, I am sure.’ He looked again into the small, panelled room that must once have been a study.

  ‘Perhaps we are not so far from a solution. Do you see what I see, Mycroft?’

  ‘There is nothing to see!’ I interjected.

  ‘You mean that you see nothing. That is quite another thing. Look, Mycroft. It seems that the kitchen is not the only place where someone may be overly generous with the salt and pepper.’

  ‘Yes, I see! A case of over-egging the pudding, you might say.’

  ‘I do not see the joke,’ I complained.

  ‘Oh yes you do, Watson! Observe the unbroken surface of dust on the floor.’

  ‘It proves that no one has been in there. Just like every other room in the house!’

  ‘Not quite. The dust is considerably thicker here than in any other place. That it should be just as thick would be perfectly natural. That it should be thicker is quite inexplicable unless——’

  ‘Unless,’ Mycroft completed, ‘the dust was scattered to cover footprints in order to make the room look unused. Clever, but done just a little too well. The door of that press over on the far wall might reward examination.’

  It may have looked like a press from outside, but, once opened, it revealed a narrow passage into a larger room.

  ‘This is the place,’ said Mycroft grimly.

  The room was lined with black marble and hung with crimson curtains. An altar of intricately inlaid stone stood at one end. A number of chairs were arranged in rows through the main body of the room. Mycrof
t tapped one chair disdainfully.

  ‘I was sitting here. There were trappings that have been removed—candlesticks, ornaments, and a book on a lectern. The one thing remaining is the picture on the wall above the altar.’

  Holmes climbed up and looked about him.

  ‘From the scorch marks on the altar top, there were two small braziers of coal burned here.’

  ‘For incense?’ I suggested.

  ‘I am sure there were no braziers burning there that night,’ Mycroft said.

  ‘Really,’ muttered Holmes. ‘That is interesting. Was there then no incense?’

  ‘Clouds of it throughout the ritual.’

  ‘Yet not from the two burners on the altar. I think that in the absence of any other clues, we must add theft to breaking and entering, and take this picture with us. I feel it will be of assistance. Come, let us leave this place.’

  ‘My main reason for taking the picture,’ said Sherlock Holmes when we were back in Baker Street, ‘is that it seems an unlikely subject to hang in such a place. Look at it! No devils or mythological beings: no signs or symbols. It is not easy to see why it would appeal to a group given over to Satanic Masses. It is a pleasant enough landscape, but no Bosch or Breughel. In fact it is a little dull. Just a flat tract of land, under a dark, stony sky. The frame is plain in the extreme, and could conceal no symbolism. And not so much as a label on the back.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I offered, ‘this was not the painting usually on display in the temple. It may have been replaced with this one to ensure that it offered no clues.’

  ‘Except that the cult had no reason to think that we would locate their temple. They could hardly know that two boys had once trained their minds to memorise blindfold journeys! And the faded area on the wall behind the picture matched perfectly, down to the undulations in the outline of the frame. No, it is the picture all right. It has some significance that we cannot discern.’