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

“That is admirable, Father, but how far should such a vow extend? Should one protect the identity of a thief?

“No one in my congregation is guilty of stealing the codex, Mr. Holmes.”

“The book did not simply vanish into thin air.”

“You must not underestimate the supernatural power of this book.”

“Now you are speaking nonsense, Father.”

“Why is it so hard for you to believe in the supernatural? You have devoted your life and talents to the struggle between good and evil.”

“The struggle between good and evil is your domain. I apply myself to the scientific study of crime and criminals.”

“Then let us lay aside any theological bearing on the matter, and simply contemplate a metaphysical universe — a sphere beyond this existence.”

“Can I see it, or touch it?” asked Holmes sardonically. “Where, pray tell, is this metaphysical world of yours?”

“It surrounds us. But as long as our focus remains fixed on the affairs of the physical world it remains invisible to our mortal eyes.”

“Two worlds inhabiting the same space?”

“Even the materialist admits we simultaneously inhabit two plains of existence. We move about a three-dimensional world even as we are passing through a fourth dimension, that of time.”

Holmes removed the watch from his vest pocket. “The passage of time I can measure. Show me your measurements of the so-called supernatural world, or do not waste my time.”

The priest stood and took his hat. “The power of the codex is real, Mr. Holmes. I wish it were not.” He strode to the door. “You would do well to read Brother Eduardo’s monograph.”

“Thank you, Father. And may I recommend Winwood Reade’s Martyrdom of Man to you?”

When the priest was gone, Watson threw down his notebook and scowled. “You know, Holmes, at times you really are too much!”

Holmes spent the better part of the next day in the Reading Room of the British Museum. When Watson met him for lunch at Simpson’s, Holmes laid a thick pamphlet on the doctor’s charger.

Watson read the title aloud, “ A Most Uncommon Prayer Book, Being a History of the Codex Exsecrabilis and a Documentation of its Known Crimes . It looks rather extensive.”

“The sins of the book, Watson, documented by the friar in shocking detail. The man’s willingness to believe in the absurd is unseemly, but his treatise bears all the hallmarks of serious scholarship.”

“What a remarkable concept that one should commit a crime for no other reason than because one has read of it in a book.”

“The idea has interest, for a crime committed in this manner would be without apparent motive, and therefore more difficult to solve.”

Holmes lit his pipe. “Brother Eduardo links the codex to many of the most sensational crimes of the last several hundred years — all of them supposedly committed during those ‘three or four brief periods’ to which he alluded, when the codex was not in the brotherhood’s possession.” He blew out a tiny cloud of smoke. “Our humble friar attempts to cast a new light on the early eighteenth-century crimes of Jonathan Wild, and I must say, his monograph has me rethinking the poisonous career of Thomas Griffiths Wainwright.”

“So what is our next move?”

“Lunch, dear fellow — we can do nothing until another crime is committed.”

When Watson was awakened by his wife early the next morning, he learned that Holmes had sent a message urging the doctor to meet him at Scotland Yard. Although he had planned on devoting the day to his Kensington practice, Watson had long ago developed a craving for Holmes’ little adventures and was soon in a cab racing toward Victoria Embankment. Upon his arrival, Holmes informed the doctor of an event he hoped would be the key to recovering the missing codex: sometime during the previous morning, a Longbourn bookseller had repeatedly stabbed his wife with a paper knife.

“Mr. Avery Felton,” said Holmes as he and Watson entered the man’s prison cell, “my name is Sherlock Holmes. I am a private consulting detective come to further investigate the circumstances that have brought you to this wretched place. Cooperate with me and I will do all I can to help you.”

Felton stared at the floor. “I have read of you, Mr. Holmes, but you cannot help me. I killed my wife … stabbed her in the back … as she washed the breakfast dishes! I loved her!” he sobbed. “Why did I do it?”

“Have you come across a leather-bound manuscript, adorned with an upside-down cross?”

He shook his head.

“Are you certain — it is a heavy book, very old, some of its leaves may have been blank.”

“I would remember such a book. What does it have to do with me?”

“Where did you go yesterday?”

“Nowhere, I stayed home.”

“Then why did you kill your wife, Mr. Felton? Did you have an argument with her?”

“My head is spinning.”

“Think, man!”

“We were having breakfast. Everything was perfect. She left to clean up. I was lounging at the table with the morning post.”

“Was there anything unusual in the mail?”

“Just letters from other booksellers.” Felton ran a hand across his face. “Except one which was absolute gibberish.”

“In what way?”

“I am not a formally educated man, Mr. Holmes. I am well read, and I understand many things, but I do not speak any foreign languages.”

“Where would this letter be now?”

He shrugged. “Still on the table, I suppose.”

Holmes tossed several torn envelopes and creased sheets of paper upon the table of his sitting room. “These letters are unremarkable. As Felton said, they are simply correspondence from his associates about book-related nonsense.”

“So we came up empty-handed,” said Watson.

“Perhaps not.”

Holmes pulled a magnifying lens from his desk drawer. “The only other scrap of paper in Felton’s place was this blank piece I found upon his kitchen floor. That alone is significant.” He briefly studied the item. “It is, as I first suspected, a very old piece of parchment … a fragment of a much larger leaf … torn off in some haste. The creases confirm that it was folded to fit inside an envelope. Also, there are several tiny water stains, which I believe are noteworthy. Beyond these salient points, it is nothing more than a thin sheet of sheep skin … soaked and stretched, then scraped smooth to remove the hair.” He took a large beaker from the shelf. “Unless I can prove that it was torn from our missing codex.”

Holmes raised the parchment to the light. “Behold, Watson,” he said, “an invention as important to the dissemination of knowledge in its day as Gutenberg’s first printing press was in the fifteenth century! Proving what Plato wrote about the impetus of need: ‘Necessity, who is the mother of invention’!”

“How so?” laughed Watson.

“Parchment was invented in the ancient Greek city of Pergamum,” said Holmes, “where — according to The Book of Revelation — Satan was enthroned.” He crumpled the fragment and dropped it into the beaker. “In the second century B.C. Pergamum established a great library rivaling even that of Alexandria.” He added just enough water to cover the parchment and began stirring the mixture briskly. “Up until then, the collected knowledge of civilization had been transcribed on papyrus, which was produced only along the Nile delta in Alexandria; and which had been over-harvested towards local extinction. Whether due to an inability to supply the material, or a desire to shut down its rival library, Alexandria ceased exporting papyrus.”

Holmes decanted the water into a test tube. “So Pergamum invented a more than adequate substitute — one much cheaper and easier to produce than papyrus. It remains an excellent example of adaptation under changing circumstances.”