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

“It bore the sins which one man poured onto its pages. Now it seeks redemption from those sins.”

“You may leave us now, Friar,” said Holmes.

“Like any soul, it is deserving of redemption,” said Brother Eduardo, walking to the door. “But unlike the man whose sins it now bears, the codex is not human … and therefore, not eligible for the same redemption offered to men.”

“Astonishing,” cried Watson, after the monk had left the room.

“That old man actually views the book as his brother,” said Father Twitchell, “a member of his own order, in fact — which is why the codex accompanies the Brotherhood whenever they travel.”

“This case has given me a headache,” said Holmes, walking to the fireplace. “Father, may I trouble you for some water?”

“Allow me to make you a cup of tea.”

“No, please, water is fine.”

When the priest returned with a glass of water, Holmes thanked him and drained it of all but an inch of liquid. “I have been admiring your fireplace,” he said. “I have never seen a hearth as large as this one. I imagine it is quite ancient.”

“Like the rest of this tower,” said Father Twitchell. “This hearth actually took up the better part of the wall. I had the opening made smaller by bricking up the front edges.”

“And still it is a hearth of enormous dimensions,” said Holmes. “But returning to more important matters, someone in your parish is responsible for mailing a page of the codex to Mr. Avery Felton.”

Holmes crossed over to the priest’s desk and set down the glass. When he withdrew his hand he managed to spill the remainder of the water. “How clumsy of me. I have made a mess of your desk.”

“That is quite all right,” said Father Twitchell, with thinly disguised irritation.

“When I received news that a bookseller had murdered his wife,” said Holmes, “I naturally assumed the codex had come into his possession.”

Father Twitchell nodded, eyeing the spilled water. The desktop, weathered and slightly warped from years of similar abuse, was far from being level, and already the tiny puddle had begun to migrate toward a battered leather volume he had been reading. He glanced about for something to mop up the liquid and, when nothing presented itself, grew visibly agitated. When the water had crept to within half an inch of the book the priest hurriedly snatched it up before it got wet. “What is your point?” he snapped, carefully examining the edges of the volume.

“Father Twitchell,” asked Holmes, “do you have a burden for books as well as for souls?”

“I beg your pardon,” he said, recovering his composure. “It has been a long and trying day. What else did you wish to ask me?”

“Could someone in your parish have wished to divert my investigation?”

“I am not sure.”

“Of course, there is another possible motive: sending that page could have been a plea for help. Tell me, Father, how does one track down a book which, according to Brother Eduardo, does not wish to be found?”

“Where would you go, if you were overburdened by the sins of your past?”

“I might seek a priest,” said Holmes. “One who would hear my confession, or — if my sins were on paper — one who would read them. For I have lately learned that no matter what the consequences, a priest would never divulge my secrets.”

Holmes held out his hand. “It is over, Father. Where is the codex?”

Father Twitchell sprang from behind his desk and charged across the room, shoving Watson on his way.

“Holmes!” the doctor cried. “He’s running into the fire!”

“Quick, Watson! Follow me!” said Holmes, running to the hearth. He leapt over the great blazing log and then whirled about. To his left was a narrow opening in the blocks, barely more than a foot wide, and perfectly hidden from view by the newer bricks.

“Hurry,” cried Watson, now at his friend’s side, “this heat is unbearable!”

Holmes quickly squeezed sideways through the opening, followed by the doctor. They found themselves in a narrow passageway, with the sound of footsteps echoing in the blackness ahead of them.

Watson groped for a match as he and Holmes felt their way down the passage. “The footsteps are fading — he is getting away!”

“I doubt that.”

The two men stumbled upon a wider chamber. They could feel a strong current of cool air blowing past them in the darkness. Watson struck a match, illuminating a large circular room. There were other passageways leading off the chamber, and narrow stone steps that wound up the center of the tower into the shadows above. “Which way did he—?”

“Quiet,” whispered Holmes.

From the gloom above their heads several bits of crumbling mortar suddenly rained down, cascading on the lowest steps. Holmes raced up the stairs with Watson close behind. When he reached the top of the tower, he found the priest standing at the edge of the parapet, clutching the codex and staring down at the street.

“Father Twitchell,” Holmes called gently, “please come away from the edge.”

The priest spun about to face him. “It is too late,” he sobbed. “The things I have done…. I can never forgive myself!” He took a step backward, the codex held tightly to his breast, and plummeted into the darkness below.

The sidewalk and cobbles of Baker Street were littered with shattered glass. Watson could hear it crunching beneath his feet when he stepped down from the carriage. He looked up at the open windows of Holmes’ sitting room, briefly wondering what new eccentricity awaited him, and then hurried up to see his old friend.

Watson immediately felt the breeze upon his face when he opened the door. He strode across the room, past Holmes who was gazing sullenly into the fire, and stood before the two windows overlooking the street. There was no glass or mullions left in the frames. The doctor sighed deeply. “There is a decided draft in this room, Holmes. What on earth have you been up to?”

Mrs. Hudson tapped at the door and then ushered in three monks.

“The thing you seek is upon the table,” Holmes said without rising.

Brother Eduardo hugged the book. “We are greatly indebted to you, Mr. Holmes.”

“What a pity,” said Brother Paolo, “that in offering absolution to a damned soul, Father Twitchell should lose his own.”

“What do you mean?” asked Holmes.

“He committed suicide,” said Brother Eduardo, “for which there is no forgiveness.”

“And why is that?”

“Only God has authority in matters of life and death,” said Brother Eugenio. “In taking his own life, Father Twitchell usurped that authority. He will burn in hell.”

“I believe you are wrong,” said Holmes. “Your faith is founded upon the belief that in a supreme act of benevolence, God sent His only son to take upon His shoulders the sins of the world, but after His son died for those sins, He was received back to His father.

“Gentlemen,” Holmes continued, “how can you believe anything less in the case of a priest who, led by love, took upon his shoulders the sins of the book, and ultimately died for those sins? Father Twitchell’s suicide was an act of sacrifice. If there is a heaven, I believe you will find him there … waiting for you.”

Holmes motioned to the door. “But these are theological matters, of which I am out of my depth.”

“Perhaps not, Mr. Holmes,” said Brother Eduardo, departing.

“Holmes, is it wise to leave so much power in their hands?” Watson asked after the men had left.

“Most of the pages in the codex were blank once again, the parchment having long ago reverted to its original state: clean and blameless. What does it say in Isaiah? ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.’ I assure you, those leaves were as white as snow. Except for one last section of manuscript, which I sliced out of the binding while slightly averting my eyes, lest I should inadvertently read some of that hellish text. The pages I removed contained the last remaining words of malediction. I took the liberty of burning them shortly before you arrived. It is doubtful the Brotherhood will hazard too close an inspection of that volume; but if they should, they will not notice its thickness diminished by a mere few leaves.”