J. Campbell - Gaslight Arcanum - Uncanny Tales of Sherlock Holmes

“He told me of both your amazing abilities and your genuine goodness,” the monk said anxiously. “And I pray you will be able to discern my deep sincerity when I say that this matter is of the utmost importance. I would not have come to you were it not so.”

“I discern that you are indeed a man without guile,” said Holmes reassuringly. “Surely you are also a humble man, to be so long in the service of your order as to attain a position of authority and yet choose to remain a novice.”

At the surprise on Brother Eduardo’s face, Watson used a finger to trace a circle about the crown of his own head: “The lack of a tonsure, quite elementary.”

Holmes sighed heavily.

“In many ways, Mr. Holmes,” said the monk, “we are all novices. Not one of us is ever fully capable of solving the great mysteries of this world.”

“Really!” said Holmes. “You quite obviously have not come here to flatter me, Friar. So please, tell me about this missing book.”

“It is a bound manuscript known as the Codex Exsecrabilis.”

“ Cursed Book, ” remarked Watson, taking notes.

“Watson,” said Holmes, “be a good fellow and fetch my copy of Librorum Prohibitorum .”

“You will not find it listed on the Church’s index of banned books,” said Brother Eduardo. “It is a singular work … composed in the early thirteenth century by an apostate monk in Podlažice, Bohemia. The manuscript pages mysteriously disappeared the night they were written, and were not recovered until 1477. By then the pages had been bound.”

“Describe the physical appearance of the book,” Holmes interrupted.

“It consists of vellum sheets gathered in wooden boards. The boards are covered in leather and ornamented with a metallic cross — an inverted cross. It is rather large and weighs over 32 pounds. The codex remained in Benedictine possession for over a hundred years … at a monastery in Broumov, until it was forcibly taken to Prague to become part of the collection of Rudolf II.”

“Bohemian Kings,” muttered Holmes, “I am besieged with the consequences of their mischief.”

“Rudolf was a student of the occult,” said the monk.

“An avocation that did nothing to help him prevent the Thirty Years’ War.”

“And when the Swedish army plundered the region, his entire collection was stolen and removed to Stockholm. A few years later the Swedish Royal Library allowed us to purchase the codex. Since then — except for three or four brief periods — the book has been in our safekeeping. Until three days ago. We are extremely anxious to locate it!”

“No doubt. Such a valuable and coveted book as…”

“Our desire to recover the codex does not stem from cupidity. The book has the power to corrupt the souls of decent men!”

“Your desire to protect us from this book is a noble one, Friar, but I believe each of us should be free to read and decide for ourselves what is moral and praiseworthy.”

“But Mr. Holmes, the Codex has been linked to numerous crimes! In fact, it is directly responsible for several ghastly murders.”

“Is this book so poorly written,” Holmes asked drily, “as to incite the reader to violence? Then why not simply fling the offending volume into the fireplace?”

The old monk nervously fingered the tiny cross hanging over his heart and stared mutely into the detective’s piercing eyes.

“Friar, if I am to help you, I must have all the facts, and I must have them now.”

“The facts will sound like fancy, I fear,” the monk said at last.

“Allow me to be the judge of that.”

“The codex is a compendium of evil acts, Mr. Holmes — all of them hideous, hellish. When anyone reads a passage from the book — and I stress, anyone — that person is compelled to enact what has been read, no matter how monstrous the deed. Later, after the evil has been enacted, the passage literally fades from the page, leaving absolutely no trace of the words.”

“That is indeed a fanciful tale,” said Holmes. “One worthy of Oscar Wilde, I might add.”

“The book must be found,” Brother Eduardo pleaded, “before it falls into the hands of another poor soul who will be powerless to resist its call.”

“But, Friar,” Holmes said soothingly, “a book composed by a thirteenth-century Benedictine scholar is undoubtedly written in Latin. How many people tramping the streets of London would be able to read such a book?”

“To be precise, the codex was written in the Vulgate. But that has never prevented anyone from reading it, regardless of a knowledge of Latin.”

“And how do you explain this?”

“It is difficult to explain the unexplainable,” the old man said slowly. “The author of the codex had been confined to his cell for breaking monastic vows. His abbot had ordered him to do penance by transcribing several sacred documents. The manuscript should have been a common prayer book, but Brother Moriarty had long been under the sway of the Prince of Darkness.”

“ Moriarty ,” said Watson. “That does not sound Germanic.”

“It is ancient Gaelic for ‘greatly exalted.’ In a perverse way, he lived up to his name: power accompanies exaltation — and his manuscript has become a source of relentless power. According to legend, he called upon Satan to anoint his writing, then repeatedly cut himself to supply the blood with which the codex was written. When finished, he was more dead than alive and the manuscript had mysteriously vanished.”

Holmes withdrew a pipe from his pocket and examined its charred contents distractedly.

“Throughout the ages there have been many blasphemous books,” continued Brother Eduardo. “Were this simply another such volume, we would not concern ourselves with it, but the parchment upon which it was written had been consecrated for sacred documents. Moriarty poured into that parchment everything that is evil. Somehow, on the night of its satanic creation, the codex took on a life of its own. Now, it is trying to revert to its original holy state.”

“Fascinating,” said Holmes, yawning.

“You must believe me! When an evil passage is read from the codex the reader is forced to enact that evil — and the passage is then wiped clean from the book! I assure you, Sir, many of its pages are now blank!”

“I believe only in those things which can be proven. You claim the book has special properties, but you have given me no proof.”

The old monk stood and bowed. “You were our last hope, Mr. Holmes. Please forgive me for taking so much of your time.”

“A moment, Friar. I may not believe the legend tied to the codex, but I will help you to recover it. Tell me the circumstances surrounding its disappearance. You said it was three days ago. Where?”

“The library of All Hallows in Longbourn.”

“I was not aware of a monastery in Longbourn.”

“Our home is in Rome. We were in London on Church business and were extended hospitality by the priest at All Hallows.”

“You brought the codex to London? Why?”

“It accompanies us wherever we go. I cannot give you the full reason for this — other than to say we are sworn to protect it.”

“Very well,” said Holmes. “We will accompany you to Longbourn.”

Judged by its dour façade, the Church of All Hallows was particularly uninviting: a squat and decrepit edifice of crumbling brick and stained glass windows darkened by decades of soot. At one corner of the church, fronting the narrow street below, an imposing tower rose up against a gray sky; a much older structure, built of huge blocks of blackened stone, that stood out from the rest like a rook on the corner of a chess board, thought Watson, stepping from the four-wheeler.