Lestrade watched the two men walk down the lane toward the Strand and disappear into the shadows. A few minutes later he heard two shrill blasts from a cab whistle — telling him that Holmes had hailed a hansom.
That same night, several streets away, a man sat alone in a dimly lit room and wept bitterly. He held something in his arms, something heavy and cool, which he gently caressed. He laid the object on his lap, wiped the tears from his eyes, and then opened it with a trembling hand.
“It’s gone!” he cried. “Gone!”
When Watson called on Holmes at his Baker Street lodgings the next morning, he found the detective sitting before the fire, absently scraping away at the violin that rested across his knees. Each screeching note from the Stradivarius sent a chill up the doctor’s spine, making him cringe and grit his teeth. “Holmes! If you please!” he cried, tossing the morning newspaper on the table.
Holmes glanced at the headlines. “Miss Anne Skipton. Certainly not a streetwalker, and yet The Times is alluding to the Whitechapel murders of two and a half years ago.”
“You must admit,” said Watson, taking the other chair by the fire, “there has been no murder this gruesome since the days of Jack the Harlot killer.”
“And already The Times is capitalizing on it.”
Holmes set aside the Stradivarius and was about to say something when he was interrupted by a knock at the door. Mrs. Hudson entered, followed by an elderly man wearing a battered black hat and faded cassock. A dull metal cross hung from a chain about the man’s neck.
“Ah! A client,” said Holmes. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”
The man removed his hat and bowed, revealing a thick, tangle of gray hair. “I am Brother Eduardo. I have come on behalf of … well, you will not have heard of our order. It is a little-known offshoot of the Benedictines, whose mission is to safeguard certain antiquities.”
Watson smiled. “A secret society?”
“Excuse me,” Holmes interrupted, “this gentleman is my good friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, and I am Sherlock Holmes.”
The old man nodded. “Not secret, Dr. Watson. The Church is well aware of our presence. Perhaps, though, our day-to-day activities may be somewhat obscure.”
Holmes motioned for the man to be seated.
“I was referred to you by a Mr. Lestrade. He feels my problem is not a matter for Scotland Yard.”
“And what is your problem?”
“My brothers and I have hopes that you will be able to locate a missing book.”
Holmes turned to Watson. “Our friend Lestrade has a habit of sending us his … more interesting cases.”
“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.”