Sherlock Holmes (20 page)

“A church undercroft in fact,” I said. “And Holmes will explain it better than I. But it’s a damnable business, Inspector. It seems Henry Baxter is a traitor who has been leading some sort of devilish cult. They’ve been selecting high-profile victims, such as Grange and Professor Angelchrist, as the objects of their unholy attentions.”

“So you believe the Professor’s current situation to be related to Baxter?” asked Foulkes.

“Undoubtedly,” I confirmed. “Although as to what
exactly
is going on, I fear I’m still as much in the dark as you.”

“But surely, as a medical man, you don’t put any stock in talk of witchcraft and sorcery?”

He held open the door for me. “Honestly, Inspector,” I said, stepping through into the study, “I no longer know
what
to believe.”

We found Holmes standing with Newbury, and both men were observing Professor Angelchrist, who was pacing back and forth behind a large desk, drumming his fingertips against the sides of his head.

The room – Angelchrist’s study – was something really quite exceptional. If Holmes’s old sitting room at Baker Street had existed in a perpetual state of disarray, then this room represented utter, unadulterated chaos. It was more like the storage room of an eclectic, disorganised museum, than any place a person might actually inhabit.

Maps plastered the walls, stuck with colourful pins and marked with lines of string, showing routes across the city and beyond. Bookcases burst with frayed leather-bound tomes, and other, unusual knick-knacks – the fossilised hand of a bear, a roman brooch, a quill pen with a vibrant orange feather, a wax seal, an unsheathed sabre. The life-sized model of a Neanderthal man was propped in one corner, staring at us forlornly from beneath his heavy brow and holding his hand aloft, where clearly it had once held a club. A grandfather clock ticked ominously from where it stood against the far wall, almost hidden behind a pile of crates. The contents were hidden, save for the crate on top, in which I could see the bleached skull of a large mammal, surrounded by packing paper. Most peculiarly, a clockwork owl sat on a perch that hung from the ceiling, preening its brass feathers and turning its head to regard us as we entered the room.

“I must stop them! I must!” called Angelchrist suddenly, causing me to start. He turned and looked at me, wild-eyed, still holding his fingers to his temples as if warding off an evil thought. “They can see it,” he mumbled, his expression pained. “They know where to look.”

Alarmed, I looked to Newbury for any explanation he might offer. He broke off from his conversation with Holmes and crossed the room to greet me, clapping me firmly on the shoulder. “It’s good of you to come, Dr. Watson,” he said. “I’d like to be able to wish you a good evening, but as you can see, I fear it is anything but. Archibald is in a bad way. He appears to have succumbed to some external influence. Either that, or something has caused his mind to entirely snap.”

I frowned. “Whatever is he referring to?”

“I don’t know,” said Newbury, the frustration evident in his voice. “He keeps on talking about how ‘they’ can see into his head, how they’ll discover all of the secrets of the spirit box if he doesn’t stop them, but he gives no sense of who ‘they’ are.”

“You’ve tried questioning him, of course?” I asked, aware of the likely redundancy of my enquiry.

“I’ve done nothing but,” replied Newbury, “but so far I’ve been unable to get through. I’m not sure he’s even hearing my questions.” He sighed. “Would you examine him for me, Doctor?”

I glanced at Holmes, who nodded his assent. “Very well,” I said, slipping my coat from my shoulders, and tossing it over the back of a chair. It was arranged beside another chair, opposite a sofa, with a low table between them. Upon the table sat the remains of a small parcel – brown paper and string – and beside it rested its former content: an amber, half-globe paperweight, engraved with a five-pointed star.

“Holmes!” I exclaimed, pointing to the offending object. “Have you seen?”

“Yes, Watson,” said Holmes. He crossed to the table and picked up the paperweight, weighing it in his hand. “It’s best we place this momentarily out of sight.” He slipped it into his coat pocket. He turned to Foulkes. “When was the package delivered? I presume it was by hand. The devils wouldn’t have wanted to risk their plans going awry by entrusting it to the postal service.”

Foulkes – who seemed unperturbed by Holmes’s pocketing of a vital piece of evidence – nodded in confirmation. “Yes, by hand, and not even that, according to the housekeeper. She answered a knock on the door at approximately four in the afternoon, but there was no one there, just the parcel on the step. The Professor was out at the time, so she placed it in his study. Presumably he opened it upon his return, which was around six. Sir Maurice had an appointment with the Professor at quarter past, and seems to have arrived just as the fit took hold.”

Newbury shook his head regretfully. “I would that I had been there earlier. Angelchrist was firmly in the grip of the affliction when I arrived. I tried to reason with him, but soon realised I had no resources to break the spell. After half an hour I rang the Inspector. I gather that Scotland Yard tried you and Dr. Watson at the Doctor’s home, but by that time you would have already been on your adventures at the bank.”

I nodded. At a quarter to seven I was waiting for Holmes outside the Tidwell building, far away from the ringing telephone in Ealing. There was nothing to be done about it now, however, and as a medical man, I had a job to do.

“Right then, Professor,” I said. “Let’s take a look at you.” I crossed to where Angelchrist was standing. He was staring at his shoes, apparently lost in thought. “Professor? Professor, can you hear me?”

He looked up suddenly, his eyes wide. He was staring right at me, but I could tell that his thoughts were far away.

“Professor Angelchrist?” I ventured again.

His eyes seemed to focus on me. “Oh, Dr. Watson,” he replied, after a moment. “Thank goodness you’re here.” I was filled with a momentary sense of relief. Could it be that his lucidity was returning?

“How do you feel?” I asked. “Would you care to sit down?”

Angelchrist shook his head. I could already see that there was little I might be able to diagnose from a medical perspective – his pupils were not dilated, and although his cheeks were rather flushed, he appeared generally fit and well. There were none of the tell-tale signs that might suggest he’d been administered a mind-altering drug – aside from his rambling, of course – and his breath didn’t smell of alcohol.

“You must keep your voice down,” said Angelchrist, in a forced whisper. “They can hear everything.”

“You’re saying the house is bugged? A Dictograph or some such?”

“No,” he said, tapping his index finger against the side of his head. “They’re in here, watching.”

My heart sank. His earlier appearance of lucidity had been a fallacy. Either he’d ingested something that was having an adverse effect on his sense of reason, or he was operating under some other, unknown influence.

I left the Professor and joined Newbury, Foulkes and Holmes on the other side of the room. “He’s in some kind of trance, would be my best estimation,” I said. “I can see no evidence that he’s been subjected to any of the typical psychotropic drugs, although I cannot be certain, not without a blood test and a thorough medical examination. He’s clearly disconnected with reality, however. He recognised me, but just as you explained, Sir Maurice, he believes that someone or something can see into his head.”

Holmes nodded, taking it all in. “Just like Herbert Grange,” he said. “Do you happen to have any tranquilisers about your person, Watson?” he asked.

“Tranquilisers?” I said. “Of course not, Holmes!” I realised with a flash of embarrassment that to even ask such a question, he must have discovered that I had been administering mild sedatives to myself of a night to help me sleep.

“Then be a good chap and go and check the cupboards, would you, Watson, for anything you might use to induce the Professor to sleep?”

I felt decidedly uncomfortable poking around uninvited in Angelchrist’s cupboards, but Holmes was right – the man was distraught, and we needed to do something to help calm him and allow him to sleep for a while. At least that way we’d be able to keep a watchful eye on him.

There was, however, nothing in his cupboards or drawers that came close to being the sort of sedative we needed. I returned to the study a few minutes later, empty-handed. “Nothing but a tot of rum,” I said, in answer to Holmes’s inquisitive look.

“Very well,” said Holmes. “We shall simply have to settle for more direct means.”

He walked over to Angelchrist, put his left hand on the man’s shoulder, and then drew back his right hand and delivered a sharp, brisk slap to Angelchrist’s face.

Angelchrist yelped, raising a hand to his smarting cheek.

“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing? Was there really any need for that?”

“Every need,” replied Holmes, firmly, as he lowered his head, trying to catch Angelchrist’s eye. “Professor?” he said.

Angelchrist looked stricken and confused. Clearly, Holmes’s brisk slap had done nothing to rouse him from his fugue state.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” said Holmes. He drew back his hand again, this time forming a tight fist, and with a sudden, sweeping movement, delivered a perfect right hook to Angelchrist’s lower jaw.

Angelchrist’s face relaxed, and he slouched forward into Holmes’s waiting arms. Holmes staggered slightly beneath the weight.

“Good Lord!” said Foulkes, utterly flabbergasted.

“Help me here,” said Holmes, rather urgently. Newbury rushed over and grabbed Angelchrist’s feet, and together they manhandled him onto the sofa, where he lay, slack-jawed, amongst the cushions.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Mr. Holmes,” said Foulkes, clearly unsure about my companion’s methods.

“He needs to sleep,” said Holmes. “It’s the only way we’ll get any sense out of him and prevent him from putting himself at risk. I believe he’ll have recovered his senses again upon waking.”

“Well, I…” muttered Foulkes, clearly unsure.

It did, I conceded, seem a most extreme measure, but in that studied, decisive blow, I had seen the echo of Holmes’s former boxing prowess, and knew very well the precision of which he was capable. Angelchrist would feel it, of course, but Holmes had been dutiful, and had administered his prescription with due care. Angelchrist would sleep for only a short while.

“Right,” said Holmes, dusting his hands and regarding us each in turn. “Time for a pot of tea while he sleeps it off.”

“Really, Holmes,” I said, shaking my head.

* * *

Newbury made tea in an ancient clay pot, which he carried through on a tray from the kitchen, teacups rattling noisily in their saucers. We perched on chairs or crates around the low table, while Angelchrist remained unconscious on the sofa.

In truth, I felt most uncomfortable sitting there in the man’s study while he lay prone and vulnerable before us. I could see that Foulkes felt the same, for he kept eyeing the sleeping figure, as if willing him to wake and dispel any sense of discomfort.

Newbury passed me a teacup and I sipped at the hot liquid gratefully, only now realising how weary I was following the day’s exertions. The tea was revitalising. I was anxious to understand what had happened to Angelchrist, and was full of questions, which I put to the group.

“So tell me,” I said. “We’ve established that the Professor is, or was, under some malign influence. Given the nature of our recent investigations and what Holmes and I discovered beneath the bank, I must ask the question – is there any chance that what Baxter and Underwood have been doing down there, whatever unconscionable rituals they’ve been performing – are responsible? Could Professor Angelchrist’s sudden alteration have come about following the application of an occult ritual?”

Newbury ran a hand through his hair. “Anything is possible, Dr. Watson. As I’ve said before, I keep an open mind, although I find it difficult to believe that someone could have such a profound influence on another’s state of mind, simply due to his or her possession of a photograph.” He paused, glancing at Holmes. “However, I find myself at an impasse. I can see no alternative explanation.”

“Inspector?” said Holmes, looking to Foulkes for an opinion. “What do you make of all this?”

Foulkes looked even more uncomfortable to be under such a spotlight. “I’ve seen many strange things in my time, Mr. Holmes. Sir Maurice might attest to that. Men forged of iron; parasitic fungus that invades a person’s nervous system; plague revenants; engines built to prolong life – but this? It appears to me to be nothing but the onset of sudden madness. If it weren’t for the fact that Grange suffered from near-identical symptoms, I’d have written it off as a sorry case of dementia. I cannot bring myself to believe in witchcraft or sorcery.”

Holmes nodded, a wry smile curling on his lips.

“Well, Holmes,” I said. “Isn’t it time you gave up your own opinion on the matter?”

Holmes laughed. “This, gentlemen, is a clear case of hypnotic suggestion.”

“Hypnotic suggestion?” echoed Foulkes.

“Quite so,” said Holmes. He took a sip from his teacup, drawing out the suspense. Over the years I had learned to indulge Holmes these small moments, the theatre of his explanatory flourish. “There is no sorcery involved. I believe we shall find, upon questioning him, that Professor Angelchrist is in possession of information regarding the true nature of this mysterious ‘spirit box’, information which I believe Henry Baxter and his German masters to be very intent on getting their hands on.”

“But how?” said Foulkes. “How could they affect the Professor in such a profound way without him realising it?”

“The spectrograph!” said Newbury, excitedly, sitting forward in his chair. “Seaton Underwood.”

“Precisely,” said Holmes. “Underwood is their instrument. Their means of getting to the right men.”

“I’m sorry, Holmes,” I said. “But you’ve lost me.”

“It’s really quite simple, Watson,” said Holmes, dismissively. “Henry Baxter, as we have already established, is a traitor, working for the German cause to attempt to destabilise British politics – and thus the war effort – by seeding sedition and undermining high-profile targets. He has forged a relationship with Seaton Underwood in order to use him to get to the men in Lord Foxton’s inner circle.”