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

“How long have you been staying here?” Holmes asked, following Brother Eduardo inside the tower.

“We arrived six days ago,” said the monk. “We would have been on our way the next morning but Brother Paolo fell ill. Father Twitchell insisted we stay until he was well enough to travel. He said we would have the place to ourselves, for he was going up to Cambridge to attend to a Church matter and would be away for four days.”

“When did he depart?”

“The morning after our arrival.”

“And when was the last time you remember seeing the codex?”

Brother Eduardo opened a large oak door and waited for Holmes and Watson to enter. “It was certainly here in his library the night after he left. It was gone the next morning.”

The priest’s study was large but austere and, like the tower rising above it, clearly much older than the rest of the church. Heavy beams crisscrossed the ceiling and extended down the windowless walls. At one end of the room was a massive desk covered with curling documents and open books. Behind the desk a high shelf held numerous volumes recording births, burials, and other church history, their leather bindings dry and brittle with age. All this was illuminated by a single great log burning in the massive fireplace.

Holmes circled the room, making a quick inspection of the bare floor. “Other than yourself,” he asked the monk, “who else might have had access to this room?”

“Only my brothers. The study was kept locked to safeguard the codex.”

“How can you be certain of this?”

“Upon his departure Father Twitchell entrusted me with the keys to the Church, including this room.”

“Then I wish to speak to your brothers — but to each individually. Please go and ask one of them to step in.”

Holmes walked to the fireplace. It was wide and deep, and almost a foot taller than the detective. He extended his hands before the blazing log. “I daresay, Watson, I could fit my entire bed upon this hearth. No more chilly nights!” he said longingly.

The library door opened slowly and the first of two monks entered, a stout, balding man who went by the name of Brother Paolo. Holmes soon ascertained that the man had been seized with severe abdominal pains the night of his arrival and, until yesterday morning, had been far too ill to leave his bed. The detective thanked him and instructed the monk to show in his brother Eugenio.

When Eugenio entered, followed by Brother Eduardo, Holmes quickly realized the young man was a true novice, for he was hardly more than eighteen and demonstrated little of the qualities of meekness and humility that characterized the other monks. Holmes turned to the fireplace. “This is an inviting blaze. Certainly it is a temptation for someone in possession of an undesirable book. Tell me, Brother Eugenio, could the codex have found its way into the fire?”

“We do not burn books,” the youth said petulantly.

“A book does not simply disappear from a locked room.”

“We believe the codex has escaped,” said Brother Eduardo, “just as it did the night of its creation.”

“Escaped?” Holmes said peevishly. “Did it flap its pages and fly up the chimney? I should like to speak with the priest on his return.”

“He is due back tomorrow, but surely you cannot suspect Father Twitchell of taking the book!”

“At present, I suspect no one,” said Holmes, “But I must question everyone. I shall call upon him tomorrow afternoon.”

In the carriage, on the way back to Baker Street, Watson turned to Holmes and asked, “The murder last night — could it somehow be related?”

“Possibly,” said Holmes, lighting a cigarette.

“ Could the codex have some occult power?”

“We have dealt with many mysteries which at first appeared to have their explanation in the supernatural — like the case of that wretched hound upon the moors. In the end, all of them proved to have a logical explanation. No, Watson, when it comes to the art of detection, I give no credence to tales of the supernatural. Like the hound, these bothersome little things nip at our heels and send us hurrying down the wrong path of investigation. How unfortunate that our history is riddled with myths, ghost stories, rumors of witches. On the stage of life, they have provided unintentional moments of ‘misdirection’: for as long as our focus is upon such things the real and important matters of human existence will always elude us.

“Nevertheless,” he continued, “I am eager to pit my skills against the bibliomane who stole this book.”

“But if the book has indeed fallen into the hands of some as yet unknown collector, it is hardly likely he will part with it. The book might be shelved in any one of a hundred private libraries.”

“If this enigmatic gathering of paper and ink is indeed a nexus for crime, then its presence cannot remain a secret for very long. I assure you, it will come to light.”

Hours later, in a boardinghouse in London’s East End, a weary man slumped in the corner of a shabby room and opened the Codex Exsecrabilis. He ran his hand down the blank page and shook at the memory of what he had done to the retired seaman in the next room. He would have to be going soon, he thought, before the body was discovered; but then, that probably would not be until the next morning. He turned the page in the book and began to weep again. He wept at the prospect of killing once more, or perhaps doing far worse; and because he knew he would go on reading - until he had reached the final page of the codex.

Holmes was mildly surprised when Father Twitchell arrived at Baker Street the next morning. “I knew you wished to speak to me about the missing codex,” said the priest. “I returned from Cambridge early this morning and decided to save you a trip by coming here straightaway.”

“What can you tell me of this strange book?” asked Holmes.

“Only what I have read of it in Brother Eduardo’s monograph. Were you aware of the pamphlet?”

“I would be interested in reading it. Do you know of any book collectors in your parish?”

Before Father Twitchell could answer, there was a knock at the door: Watson entered the room and quickly introduced himself to the priest, who shook the doctor’s hand vigorously.

“I confess to being one of your avid readers,” said the priest. “Such marvellous adventures — quite exhilarating.”

“Excuse me, Father, are there any book collectors among your flock?” asked Holmes.

“Not that I am aware.” The priest turned to the shelves above Holmes’ desk. “You have some interesting volumes here. Are you a collector of books?”

“A book is not unlike a soup tureen. Though some may covet it for its shape and pattern, it is only the broth inside that interests me. No, I keep books only to have easy access to the information they record, but I did, however, notice a few rare volumes in your own library. Do you collect books?”

“Not unlike you; only for what they can tell me.”

“Is there anyone in your parish in desperate need of money? Someone who might have chanced upon the codex, realized its rarity, and seized upon the opportunity to take it to a bookseller?”

“A few of my parishioners are indeed poor. But the codex was in my study, and my study is not open to the church. In fact, it is always kept locked.”

“May I ask why?”

“Even priests need some small bit of privacy, Mr. Holmes. At any rate, I hope that you do not suspect anyone in my congregation.”

“Not at present. But if I do not soon uncover a substantial lead in this investigation, I will need to start questioning the more needy members of your church.”

“I am afraid I would not be able to assist you in such an endeavour. Most of what I know was told to me in the privacy of the confessional. I cannot break my vow to protect this confidentiality.”