Gaslight Arcanum: Uncanny Tales of Sherlock Holmes

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.”

“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?”